stories she tells

Facing reality - squirrel edition

2011-12-12T11:19:00.004-06:00

Scratch. Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch.

Saturday morning, as I entered the kitchen, what sounded like a cat digging in the litter box disoriented me. The cat box was in the basement. This seemed to come from around the corner. Unless Denali was really going to town, there was no way I should have heard this sound. I shrugged my shoulders and set to work picking up breakfast dishes.

Clunk. Something fell somewhere inside the home in which I was alone.

I peeked out onto the three-season porch extending from the kitchen, then took another look. Huh? There it sat, on the wrong side of the window. Its plumed tail ticked rhythmically, conveying its displeasure.

Squirrrrrrrrel!

*#$@!!! This plump little guy must have been pretty adventurous and thorough to find the portal, a small rip in the screen door. I watched him hop onto the dining table, then onto the floor where he knocked over the recycling, as he frantically searched for an exit. His terrified - or were they incensed - beady black eyes momentarily met mine.

"We're going to get you out of here, little guy," I said, mostly to calm myself and prevent a hysterical laughing fit. I've seen Christmas Vacation too many times, and my inner voice started spewing lines. "Where's Eddy, he usually eats these things?"

Truly, the fix was easy. I waited until he moved to the far end of the porch, cracked the kitchen door and started to reach for the door to the outside ... He darted to the floor. Shit. Mission aborted. What if he dashed into the house? Then I'd have a real problem. I could go around back to open the door, but what if he flew right at me and went for the jugular? What if I slipped down the icy stairs as I ran, only to knock my head and suffer a brain injury. Yes, too many movies. Pair that hyperactive imagination, a recent concussion, some brutal head-ice contact a few years back, and a lifelong (and abnormally strong) fear of rabies, and you see why this incident turned me into a quivering nut job.

The flashbacks began. About a month ago, a friend and I took a night mountain bike ride. A large, bumbling raccoon ran up the path toward us before shimmying up the nearest tree. She continued riding. I hit the breaks so hard I nearly did an endo.

"Um," I almost whispered. "I'm afraid of the raccoon."

Correction: Part of me wanted to snuggle with the raccoon in all his cuddly, fatty cuteness. What I feared, however, as I looked at his wide, charcoal eyes staring back at me and his finger-like claws clinging to the tree, was that I might ride past only to have a this blood-thirsty (and certainly rabid) creature leap onto my back and tear at me with his fangs and talons. He was probably a she ready to protect her babies at any cost. I gave him a wide berth as I walked my bike through the woods. By that time, he was watching us cautiously from the tree top, probably wondering what we were doing tearing through the woods with headlights on our helmets on Friday night, in Minnesota, in November.

"You don't like raccoons?" my riding companion seemed to be reevaluating our friendship.

"I like raccoons. In pictures. I don't like rabies."

My mother's stray-animal warnings and safety-vigilant public schooling meant growing up convinced all animals have rabies. As an adult, experience has taught me that even the sweetest animals will try to kill you if they have people to babies nearby. We're not talking about bears or anything exotic. Ask me about the bird incident, or the cow incident, or the deer incident.

I thought about the photo of grizzly bear tracks that came across my twitter feed that morning and realized my urban "wildlife" problems were pathetic. I follow a woman who lives in Alaska and whose adventures cross paths with real animals. The fact that I am a city slicker no matter how much I love the outdoors stings my pride. It also amuses me.

I giggled as I pulled out my iPhone to capture the moment. I wanted my mother. Not to save me, but to share this experience. We'd laugh at this ridiculousness and work ourselves into breathless, slap-happy tears as we recounted that Christmas Vacation squirrel scene line for line. But she'd never get here in time.

Of course, my husband, Chris, could be relied upon. He was only three blocks away helping our friend with a bathroom remodel. I dialed and redialed his cell. No answer. I called our friend's land line. Chris picked up.

"Yeees?"

"There's a squirrel," I snorted. "On the back porch. He's going nuts; I feel bad."

Oops. I hadn't meant to be punny. I explained my liberation plan and its many problems.

"Just go around the back and prop open the door," he patiently instructed.

"But what if it flies out and bites me?"

"So, you want it to fly out and bite me instead?" he asked. Clearly, I was not getting the sympathy I needed and would be facing this alone.

"Fine. I'll call you when I leave for my rabies shots."

I pulled on my hat, jacket, and boots. Trotted defiantly around the back, all the while cursing myself and Chris for not salting the walkway.

"Breathe, Jenifer, breathe,"I coached myself as I walked just far enough up the stairs to pull the door open. I propped it ajar with a rubber mat, then tore off. Back inside the house, I peered out to find the little guy creeping ever-so-apprehensively toward freedom. Momentarily, he froze at the threshold.

"Dude. Get out there!" I urged. "It's over!"

He scuttled onto the stairs, then dashed across the snowy yard to the lilac bush. I pulled the door shut, examined the hole, and hoped he didn't come back with any friends. Shame followed my relief.

"Worked up over a squirrel, Jen? Really?"

I aspire to be the West Virginia mountain momma John Denver sings about. But, I reluctantly admit my reality more closely resembles Billy Joel's Uptown Girl.

Endings

2011-11-22T09:22:00.000-06:00

"You can be as mad as a mad dog at the way things went. You could swear, curse the fates, but when it comes to the end, you have to let go."

The last part of that line whispers through my mind from time to time. It nestled its way in when I watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button a few years back. I consider it comforting and useful, especially in recent months when my life seemed riddled with decisions, confrontations, and loss.

I find it so easy to trick myself into holding onto certain things despite knowing full well they must be cut loose. Oh, denial, what a temptress. And yet, finally letting go seems simple compared with what leads up to the act: recognizing - and acknowledging - the true end.

It seems we cling to certain things well past their expiration date in hopes that somehow more time, effort, love or money can revitalize them. Or worse, we may suffer from delusions that somehow the past might be altered, that a relationship's very fabric might be rewoven to change its current texture. We can only move forward with the wisdom we've gathered and do better - no point in expending precious energy on what can never change. Clutching to something stale, be it a choice we've made, a relationship, or a career, promises to turn us miserable and bitter.

But how do we know what's run its course and must be released and what's worth holding onto, even fighting for? When are we giving up prematurely and when are we wisely letting go?

I wonder because I've also found that just when things seem as difficult and unbearable as they could possibly be - if I immerse myself in the fray rather than resist it - sometimes some pretty spectacular things happen.

There's the fairly painful and uncertain hike to a remote "ghost town" in Colorado last summer that, just as we were about to bail, turned into a delightful afternoon with one of its residents. In the past year I started improving at track racing - and found a deeper appreciation for it - just as my morale hit rock bottom and I considered calling it "over." Throughout the past decade, I've believed in other people's ability to overcome dark struggles (as well as my own), and just when these situations seemed as hopeless as they could be, things started to turn around. Now that I think about it, every one of those turning points followed some sort of surrender.

Just last month, I spent some time with a dying loved one, someone I wished I'd been closer to. At first I wondered how to make up for lost time. Then, I realized that opportunities could not be recreated. I could only work with the moments remaining. The two days I spent with her allowed me to let go of the dreams for a different relationship and accept it for what it was. The connection in that final visit could not rewrite our history, but appreciating it for what it was brought me peace.

The best I can come up with is that recognizing the end and knowing when to let go comes back to presence, surrender and acceptance - and listening to the hunch otherwise known as intuition. Maybe it comes to a point where we no longer have a say in the matter; we arrive at that place where we can go no further or the moment we can no longer contain that which we wrap tightly in our arms. We must let go and allow the next moment/opportunity/chapter to unfold. The real decision lies in how - or if - we allow ourselves to move on.

Memory

2011-10-04T10:51:00.003-05:00

Stinky salmon pate. I hold that pungent, brainy-looking mound responsible for blasting me with grief.

Last Thursday night seemed harmless enough. I stopped by my brother's home to drop off a box spring he'd been storing in my garage and to wish him a happy birthday. We sampled some rabbit stew he and his girlfriend made. And he sent us home with a loot from his garden and some soft cat food snubbed by his finicky feline.

Upon arriving home, I headed straight to the kitchen where I knelt down to scoop the dejected goods into our new kitty's dish. Then, it happened.

Deja vu describes the sensation of feeling you've experienced something before. This was not that. I had absolutely experienced this before. One year ago to the day, as a matter of fact. My vision blurred as nausea and gut-wrenching sorrow swept my body. I staggered a bit as I stood, placed the remaining cat food in the fridge, washed my hands and began making pizza dough.

On precisely that same evening the year prior, I fed my sick cat, Val, some medicinal-strength-odor soft cat food. She would be put to sleep the following day. My experience with loss had, until that point, been minimal. Her death shook me up, but, of course, time healed.

It's funny how a simple moment reaches into memory's depths and elicits emotion so fresh it seems you're experiencing it for the first time.

Conversations from the Road

2011-09-30T10:46:00.002-05:00

I feel especially nostalgic for summer vacation today. Fall's onset has me looking back on the past months' adventures with gratitude and fondness.

Driving banter ranked among the many highlights from our July 2011 Multi-State Wedding/Bike/National Park Extravaganza. Whenever Chris and I take a road trip, we engage in an endearing silliness absent from our daily lives. This time I attempted to jot down some good lines - after all, it's tricky to write dialogue; lately I find myself paying closer attention to how people converse.

What follows pretty much sums up our relationship: I bring the goofiness along with bordering-on-obnoxious optimism and enthusiasm, and he shows up with dry humor and a curmudgeonly those-are-the-facts approach to life.

Maybe these snippets will amuse others (and hopefully not offend Mormons, country-music lovers, hippies, farm animals and those suffering from halitosis). Perhaps, I now hear crickets chirping in the ether. Anyway, here it goes ...

Which side of the fire?
"Wait a second," Somewhere outside Opal, Idaho, I started to make a connection. "If Garth Brooks is singing that 'life is not tried it is merely survived' if you're standing outside the fire, then he's saying you should stand ... in the fire?"

"Nothing gets by you, does it?" Chris shook his head in what I like to believe was just strangely displayed pride.

"Well, sometimes you just hear the lyrics, you know? I never really listened to what he was saying."

Perhaps this, coupled with the fact that I broke out Garth's Double Live album in the first place, signaled too many hours in the car, but my mind felt blown.

A week later, as we journeyed across South Dakota, I contemplated something ridiculous with far too much hesitation - eating cold spaghetti from the previous night's camp dinner - to which my dearest smart-ass responded, "What did you learn from the Garth Brooks song?"

Sigh. "Eat the spaghetti."

Almost paradise, we're knocking on heaven's door
traveling Hwy 6 in Utah to Salt Lake City
Chris: I wonder what the Mormons were taking that they thought this was paradise.
Me: I like these vast open spaces. There's so much unknown, yet you know something is out there. They represent possibility. There's beauty in the expanse.

A little later ...
Me: Well, there's no roadkill here.
Chris: There's nothing alive to kill.

If Saffron McDonald had a farm
Idaho - somewhere ...
Me: Look at that barnyard! There are geese, goats and llamas!
Chris: Those are hippie animals, not barnyard animals.

When the mood strikes
Montana - passing a sign for the War Bonnet Inn
Chris: We should get you a war bonnet. It'd be a bit of a heads up.
Me: That's not funny. (fighting back laughter)
Chris: Yet, you're laughing.
Me: I'm crying on the inside.

Dirty is in the eye of the beholder
Passing sheep ...
Me: There are sheep.
Chris: Those are dirty sheep.
Me: That's not nice.
Chris: I'm not saying all sheep are dirty.
Me: Hollywood has tainted your expectations of sheep.

We pass horses ...
Me: Are those dirty horses?
Chris: They look like the standard horse variety.

Carnage
Me: The windshield is full of bugs again.
Chris: The bugs gave their lives so we could have this trip.

The exact moment I knew we'd spent too much time in the car

Wyoming - somewhere east of Cody
Me: What did you have for ... (burst out laughing so hard that tears stream down my cheeks)
Chris: (Blank stare that seems to question my sobriety)

Me: What, what, what did ... (more belly-aching, sobs of laughter)
Chris: (Focusing on the road and not amused)

Me: (Recalling the phrase my dad used for bad breath growing up and spiraling further out of control with laughter. The quantity of my tears makes it appear that I am weeping.)

Me, again: Did you eat ... Oh my god, I can't stop. (Now hyperventilating.) It's not even funny. It's (laughing) It's (laughing) It's so stupid.
Chris: (Waiting in disbelief)

... Twenty minutes pass with several failed attempts to complete my sentence ...

Me: What did you have for breakfast? (I take a running start at the words before I laugh again, they spill out into one) Ashitsandwich? (Uncontrollable laughter ensues once more) Oh, my god. I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm ridiculous.

Chris: (Laughs and shakes his head.) Yes, you are.

Cliches in real life

2011-09-21T10:17:00.000-05:00

The campfire crackled, and our group sat around it recounting the day's mountain bike ride. Taking a sip from my IPA, I looked down to see a large, white moth on my friend's leg. The fuzzy-bodied insect fluttered onto my knee before making his way to the back of my hand, which rested on my thigh. I gasped slightly, a bit overcome by the peacefulness.

The little guy seemed unusually social - and, apparently, harbored suicidal tendencies. As I admired his beauty and spotted his glossy, black pin-size eyes, he leapt directly into the fire and immediately incinerated.

I shrieked. We'd just shared a "moment," and he was gone, fatally seduced.

"I guess the 'like a moth to a flame' saying is true," intensely disturbed, I tried to lighten the mood. But I questioned the moment. Had my eyes played tricks? No, others saw it to.

For minutes, I sat quietly and indulged my tendency to see everything as a lesson. What was the deeper meaning? Why did the moth choose to touch me before dying? Obviously it symbolized something! My hyperactive mind longed to mine for explanations. Or maybe, just maybe, it was nothing more than a moth doing what moths do.

"Shhh. You think too much," my inner voice coaxed. "Enjoy this moment with your friends."

Passion is Presence

2011-09-09T15:53:00.000-05:00

Back in my high school cross country days, I loathed 800 repeats. They hurt for too long. But it was during this suffering that I discovered beauty. On one miserable autumn torture session in the park after school, the coach gathered our crumbling lot and instructed us to pay attention as the star runner completed his effort.

"Look at his eyes," he said to the half-dozen teenage girls whining to cut the workout short. While this request certainly elicited a collective eye roll, it worked - at least on me. As our hero strode by, he seemed unaware of the onlookers. His dark eyes focused on some elusive target. Until that point, I'd never seen such intensity projected. However, high school decorum meant quickly averting my stare and erasing all traces of enchantment.

In the 16 years that passed, that piercing look seemed to exist only within my memory's confines. But this summer, I recognized it at the velodrome. No longer an embarrassed 16-year-old, I allowed it to draw me in. It lingered in my head for a few days. In all honesty, it consumed my thoughts to the point of disruption. What was it about this not-quite-far-off, but not-quite-there gaze that moved me?

Desire? Determination? Certainly, but it seemed those were just elements. Then it hit me. I'd witnessed presence. That "look" was the appearance of someone fully in the moment. And its fervor tantalized my spirit.

In creative pursuits we talk about flow - those glorious periods when everything fades away and we lose ourselves in our art. Heck, we become our art. Athletes, teachers, activists, lovers, anyone can experience flow, but it seems impossible to achieve this state without passion.

Presence, it would seem, is passion in action. And being present enough to observe the beauty of another's presence, well, that must be where inspiration lives.

I'm talking about a little place called Aspen

2011-07-21T11:06:00.001-05:00

I adore life's rare cinematic moments. (Or maybe cinema truly capturing real life is the rarity.) Certain experiences possess such heightened beauty, quirkiness and/or emotion that you wonder how your insignificant self wandered into them.

This year July 4 possessed such magic. (Now that I think about it, last July 4 proved fairly surreal. Chris and I narrowly escaped death by North Dakota cattle herd while riding the Maah Daah Hey Trail. Yes, a loooong-overdue blog post awaits.)

I digress. Back to July 4, 2011, in Aspen, Colo.

The night before, we'd rolled into nearby El Jebel where our friends immediately swept us away to Snowmass for real mountain biking. My asthmatic lungs did not enjoy the elevation, but I gladly suffered to see this dream realized. Wiping out in front of a patio filled with people added injury and insult on an otherwise thrilling descent, but somehow it felt like an appropriate conclusion.

Because our hosts failed to do us in on night one, they woke us for an early-morning edition of "let's kill some Midwesterners." This time on road bikes. (Full disclosure: One of them grew up in Colorado, and they live in Minnesota now. They are both more accustomed to mountain riding.)

With labored breathing on hills that would faily to qualify as noteworthy back home, I decided thinking about it would only bring on defeat. Instead, I fed my ever-present bear/wolf/mountain lion fear. After all, a small being lagging behind the herd might appear a weak and tasty breakfast. Rustling bushes!? Oh, just a ground squirrel. And so on ...

As much as it hurt, I wished not for a moment to be anywhere else. Mountains, streams, fresh air and great companions surrounded me. We passed Hunter S. Thompson's famous former haunt Woody Creek Inn. The trail flattened, widening my smile. Somewhere on the road above two guys on a motorcycle sped by and heckled us with "Go Lance" or some other cyclist-heckling phrase du jour.

Focusing on maintaining a respectable cadence and pedaling smooth circles - a healthier distraction that unlikely animal attacks - I climbed some more before spotting the unthinkable on the horizon. "Oh my god! Do you see that?" I shrieked to my husband, who'd reached the hilltop and kindly circled around to keep me company.

Ahead of us two men tried to push a smoking and sputtering moped up a hill a la Dumb & Dumber. Tears may have welled up in my eyes. My legs found new strength as I moved closer to them. One hopped on the scooter. The other pushed some more. They both rode it away before repeating the entire process.

Finally, we reached not Jim Carey and Jeff Daniels, but two goofy teenage boys in scarves who smiled back at us. We recognized them to be our verbal assailants, now appearing quite foolish. "You know what you look like, don't you?" They nodded. They, too were Aspen-bound. We cheered them on before leaving them in our pathetic, 15-mph wake. Legendary.

That delightful encounter only marked the beginning of our charmed Independence Day. We spotted a certain retired pro-cyclist; took in a hometown parade complete with fire engines, fast cars and kids on bikes; successfully rode our bikes up a mountain; picnicked to a symphony and watched a remarkable fireworks display over the mountains.

And, to think, two more weeks of travel awaited.

Nebraska

2011-07-18T10:41:00.000-05:00

Nebraska gets a bad rap. I confess to openly hating on this state (just a little bit). Now I shall admit - yes, you are reading this correctly - to adoring it for being easy to dismiss and difficult to love.

When you're traveling toward the majestic Rockies, it's hard not to grow impatient driving across such a long, flat expanse. But, speeding through Nebraska means entering the land of wide, open and sparsely populated spaces. I think of this stretch as an opportunity to practice living in the moment, and I have to say this state never fails to offer some amazing skies.

With Chris at the wheel, I looked out for tumbleweeds (not one!) and indulged in my new favorite road-trip pastime: passenger-seat photography through bug-splattered windshields.

On the road, again! What I did on my summer vacation ...

2011-07-18T10:17:00.000-05:00

Whenever I want to see the world, I hit the road. Airplanes work well for taking transatlantic travel and a time-constrained jaunt from point A to point B, but while up in the air you miss too much below. This summer's back-to-back weddings - something that, following our mid-30s onset, rarely occurs - became an excuse for a two-week tour westward. And, when it comes to vacation, the only words that make me giddier than "road trip" are the words "Mountain Standard Time."

On July 2, we departed from Winona following my friend Meg's wedding celebration. (Fun and fabulous affair, Ms. F. What a smashing time we had!) The truck contained camping gear, two garment bags containing formal wear, a bag of female footwear ranging from three-inch pumps to hiking boots, two bags filled with outdoors attire, two bags filled with spandex and other cycling gear, two coolers and four bikes - two for the road, two for the dirt.

Our 4,365-mile route included 10 states - Minnesota, Iowa, Nebraska, Colorado, Utah, Idaho, Montana, Washington, Wyoming and South Dakota and several pretty sweet experiences along the way.
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In a nutshell

2011-06-24T15:18:00.002-05:00

Have you ever had one of those days where you get a ton of work done, get out for a great ride with a good friend and, hey, maybe throw in a few hill repeats? Then you make a silly move. Flustered, you make a second silly move. And you know you messed up, and you feel really bad, but then someone follows you around and verbally flogs you for awhile for making "two asshole moves." You get embarrassed and feel like a 5-year-old being scolded for sneaking cookies for dinner, but you shake it off.

Then you get home and find a giant pile of fresh dog shit that looks like it came out of a Great Dane - way in the middle of your yard. And, oh, you don't have a dog. And picking up poo makes you gag so hard you vomit. And it's pretty warm outside, so it's extra squishy and smelly.

Finally, you head inside, picking up the mail to find our your insurance company has denied a claim, which means you get to pay lots of cash out-of-pocket.

But none of this matters because the sun finally decided to shine and you feel fantastic from the pleasure of a nice, long, hilly ride in good company.

That's the kind of day I'm having.

Solstice Solace

2011-06-22T14:34:00.000-05:00

Tonight might be the year's longest sunny day, I thought Sunday evening as dusk lingered. The next several days, among which fell the summer solstice, promised rain and clouds.

I despise summer solstice. It brings me down. Forget that it signals summer, it also kicks off six months of gradually diminishing daylight - a fact I can't see past.

Sitting there, playing Scrabble with Chris, I wondered if I'd squandered 2011's sunniest days thus far. Certainly, on that day, I had not. In the company of good friends, I raced a mountain bike, watched a criterium and walked around Stillwater, Minn, before heading home to eat dinner and play board games on the back porch with my husband. Vowing to mindfully savor summer's warmth and light, I resisted further dwelling on the slow shortening of days about to transpire.

At some point our lives shift seasons. We tend to recognize these transitions through aging. However, because how many days we have is a mystery, it's impossible to really know when our summers begin or how soon we'll approach winter.

Perhaps it does not serve us to obsess on seasons. If we're too busy dreading the season ahead or lamenting the season gone by, we squander the season we're in. All days - bright and dark - hold value. And if we can recognize that, it means we're alive.

Musings of the Self-Employed

2011-06-14T13:59:00.001-05:00

From my office window, I watch my neighbors and wonder what life choices allow them to do yard work all day and hire someone to paint the house. Import-export biz? Seriously, who has that kind of time and money?

Meanwhile, they probably see my car out front and shake their heads. "What do you think she does all day?" they ask one another. "She's sitting inside sipping Jack from a bottle and talking to her cat all day while their yard turns into a wildlife refuge."

When I held service jobs I reserved great contempt for those out lunching with friends, drinking coffee, shopping, or getting massages mid-day. Who were these people frolicking freely within the 9-to-5? Didn't they belong at work?

Now that I count myself among the self-employed, those day-frolickers are my people. The scorn hath vanished. Make way for curiosity, suspicion and tale-spinning - all in good fun. I suspect we're all judging one another to be independently wealthy, lazy or both.

Changes upon Changes

2011-06-02T10:47:00.000-05:00

After changes upon changes we are more or less the same
- Simon and Garfunkel, "The Boxer"

It seems the children in my life grew up without warning. Two graduate from high school today. Another became a teenager on Monday. A handful prepare to join the ranks of licensed drivers. If I didn't feel like a card-carrying adult before, I do now.

Last night my niece, who just completed 8th grade, received an academic award. I proudly looked on as the young woman who tossed petals down the aisle at my wedding accepted her honors.

A beloved, retiring math teacher addressed the crowd with an engaging speech that called on math and music to illustrate his theme: Life is about balance. When introducing himself, he explained that students appreciated his "junior high sense of humor" while adults often stare blankly in response. He quickly established his credibility as that rare and special authority figure who speaks the same language as strange early-teen beings and offers them understanding, inspiration and engagement.

Listening to him amid a gymnasium full of faculty, parents and students, I recalled a time I rarely visit. My skinny, curly-haired, coke-bottle-glasses-wearing, 13-year-old self emerged from memory's depths. She reminded me about the spring play, swimming class, dances, yearbook, English class, crushes, cliches and notes passed in the hallway. As the speaker played the above line from Simon and Garfunkel's "The Boxer," I examined her, searching for my own intrinsic qualities. Who am I today that I was 19 years ago? Which parts of me weathered adolescence's storm, which ones helped me weather it and which ones did the storm reveal?

As the chosen student speakers shared their ambitions and philosophies, my heart swelled. For the first time I understood why one might choose to work with that age group. These teachers do more than educate. They guide those precious souls in the transition from childhood into adulthood by offering them compassion, arming them with skills and helping them navigate puberty's choppy waters. The students' innocence and optimism elicited hope and sadness.

In those years between 13 and 30 (and forever after) we endure and accomplish much. We mess up. We succeed. We meet people and lose them. We see dreams crumble and discover new ones beyond our wildest imagination. We learn lessons and fail to learn them. We disappoint and amaze ourselves. Hopefully we do so without sacrificing our essence.

In some ways I think having no children of my own, has kept me somewhat stunted. I observe how my friends with newborns selflessly take on entirely new lives and wonder how they can lose themselves that way. But lately I am starting to understand - as best I can without becoming a mother, anyway. There comes a time to move on from that place where life's all about you and your discovery. It's time to make space for others to roam there. It's time to use those intrinsic qualities to nurture their journeys. It's time to really grow up.

Memorial Day

2011-05-27T10:01:00.002-05:00

One year ago, as we prepared for a Memorial Day camping weekend with friends, the phone rang. It was one of those calls. You know, the kind that changes everything.

"My Uncle Phil has cancer," Chris said. "They say he only has a couple months to live.

"We need to visit him. We need to go this weekend," I responded.

We always talked about going to visit Uncle Phil, a man Chris spoke adoringly of. Now time called our bluff.

Our travels took us to one place I, a religious mutt, never imagined going: a Jesuit community. To the world, Uncle Phil went by Father Phil. This visit put me on guard. I feared judgment and brought plenty of my own along.

It turned out Father Phil and I were kindred spirits. A long-time editor and true language lover, he brought us to his office where he not only shared childhood stories about Chris' deceased father but also spoke at length about his life's passion: words. His eyes lit up and his energy piqued when the topic turned to our common interest.

We talked for hours. I became his pupil, listening and taking notes, fluctuating between gratitude for this afternoon and sadness that it would be our only afternoon. How had our lives been too busy for this trip until the last possible moment?

He photocopied favorite articles and gifted me his favorite book on writing.

"Children are enchanted and delighted by big words. They stretch the imagination," he said at one point, citing Treasure Island as one of his favorite works of juvenile literature.

He took us to the top of his building so we could look out over St. Louis. My sister-in-law stated she thought little of the Arch.

"You didn't get close to it, did you?" He asked. She said she had not. "Well, that's it. You've got to get close to it. You've got to see the way the sun hits the different angles. It's like fireworks."

Our two-hour visit, kept short to respect his health, turned into a seven-hour visit. I did not want to leave. I wanted to stay for days and be mentored by this warm and brilliant person who lived so fully, with a gracious and loving heart, and through a child's eyes. The next morning, after stopping by for breakfast, Chris and I hugged him farewell.

It's so strange to say goodbye to someone whose days are knowingly numbered. "Thank you" and "I am so glad to have met you" were all I could say. Chris and I both started crying as we pulled out of the parking lot, waving goodbye until the small, gray man disappeared from view.

Two weeks later, he passed away.

That phone call changed everything, all right. I knew Father Phil for 24 hours, but that brief encounter profoundly impacted my life. I saw, in action, the beauty of living with purpose and intent. This man took a vow of poverty to follow such a path. After experiencing his peaceful, joyous spirit, I recognized that it might be possible to sacrifice some material comforts to follow my heart. And, shortly thereafter, I did. In that way and so many others, that afternoon transformed me.

My Best Day

2011-05-20T14:14:00.000-05:00

Seven months ago this week, Chris met me in Seattle for the last leg of my big adventure. We decided to meander southward into Oregon before returning to Minnesota.

Our first destination: Long Beach, Wash., a charming coastal town with an isolated, laid-back vibe and cottage-like police station adorned in Christmas decorations. We checked into a no-tell motel with a decent view and some significant and slightly unnerving stains on the floor - remnants of a drunken night or, perhaps, a drug deal gone wrong. I'd just come down with full-body aches, tremor-inducing chills and a raging sore throat. Everything about it said, "Bad idea. Turn home now."

That night, we walked down the dark road to the beach and listened as angry waves crashed along the shore. Their silvery outlines cut through the dark. No stars, moon or city lights illuminated the sky. Night swallowed us whole. This place where water and sky dominate stripped everything else away to reveal our insignificance. No camera could capture the scene, yet my memory recalls it with all five senses. Never has such surrealism touched my waking life.

Leaving so quickly next morning only fueled the sense it never happened. After we combed the beach at sunrise, I stalled. Perhaps we could disappear here, I thought. Chris could build furniture, and I'd write for the local newspaper. We'd fix up an inexpensive, run-down cottage and live in absolute simplicity. If I do one thing consistently well, it's dream.

Soon we left Washington and my fantasy behind. We stopped in Oregon communities such as Canon Beach, Wheeler and Oceanside. Tourist season long since gone, few people crossed our paths. We wandered, searching for shells and hoping luck might grant us a rare Japanese fishing float. One beach offered sand dollars, another smooth black rocks. I pocketed some treasures and dipped my toes in the crisp November waters. We dined on shrimp, scallops and halibut for lunch and drank hot coffee from seaside shacks. The day, despite its brevity and thriftyness, seemed infinite and decadent.

This 24-hour-period - captured rather hastily here - defined for me the concepts of pure joy, wonder and ease. It may be my best day. It's easily my favorite in eight years with Chris. We found a string of rare moments in which yesterday and tomorrow ceased to exist. We simply discovered, together.

Finding Romance in the Royal Wedding

2011-04-29T17:35:00.000-05:00

Scheming up princess weddings and dreaming up my happily ever after never registered with my childhood self. When it came to choosing "let's pretend" roles, I opted for Super Man and Wonder Woman over Cinderella or Snow White. I preferred the Skipper to Ginger. And, rather than fawn over Magnum PI, I wanted to be him. When my friend Susannah suggested we get our Barbie dolls ready for prom, I faked that I knew what it was, then quickly decided it was lame. My Barbies rode horses and raced speedboats. They kicked Ken to the curb when he brought trouble to the dream house. You couldn’t quite peg me as a tomboy. I just subscribed to different fairy tales than many of my same-sex peers. (Okay, I briefly wanted to be a football cheerleader and date the quarterback, but I was five. We lived in the South at the time, and societal expectations tarnished my thinking.)

By age eight, I busied myself writing and directing plays for my family (read: bossing my siblings around and making them perform for my parents), keeping a journal and spending entire Saturdays with my nose in a book—especially the Little House on the Prairie books. Laura Ingalls Wilder, now there was a hero I could identify with. Her family moved all around the middle and western United States by covered wagon. We did so by U-Haul or Mayflower. Forget Disney princesses who wore silk or chiffon, my pioneer girl heroines sported Calico print dresses and sunbonnets. They got their hands dirty right alongside the handsome farmers courting them.

That's the short explanation for why the Royal Wedding and the hullabaloo leading up to it failed to tug at my heartstrings. I wasn't that kind of child, so I'm not that kind of adult.

When I turned on the TV and opened my browser this morning, I braced myself for wedding overload. Sure, I admit I wanted to see Kate’s dress. Gorgeous! What really took my breath away, however, were the masses there in the flesh wishing them well. (Okay, and that stunning Aston Martin Volante DB6 MKII the beaming couple drove away in. Now I feel silly saying so, but I keep fawning over the photo on some UK gossip site. Really. I want that car.) It strikes me how many people care—and their numerous reasons for caring. For many, I suspect the royal wedding, with its real-life princess, her darling prince and glamor galore, rekindles fantasies from youth. Such an event gives us permission to unearth any childish wonderment and romance we've buried deep within.

My curmudgeonly self wants to groan about the ad nauseam media coverage, but the dreamer in me wins. Getting lost in the seemingly silly and senseless from time to time makes us human. I’ve enjoyed watching the world delight in this event. With all the seriousness adulthood brings, it’s good to indulge a dream from time to time.

It's Big. It's Mine. It's Spectacular. - A Brief History. A Brief Rant.

2011-03-31T13:07:00.001-05:00

This morning I decided to get outside and start the day with a run. No big deal, right? Little snow remained sidewalks and paths. It felt pretty warm. My legs felt fresh. Then I turned onto my block, at which point some jerk-off in a black Saab convertible slowed up, rolled down his window and yelled, “You have a big ass.”

What?!? Really? Wow. I'm glad he took time to point this out because, shit, I had no idea.

I kept my line of vision straight ahead so as not to give him any satisfaction. I hate to admit, but I saw red as I clutched my fists to prevent flipping him the bird and escalating the incident. 10-9-8-7- … I cooled off by the time he reached the next block.

Who takes the time to yell things like that at complete strangers, especially complete strangers leading healthy lives? Someone done raised him wrong or he needs some new meds. Maybe he’s miserable and gets his jollies from harassing women. Or perhaps he actually found my rear so offensive he had to scold me for taking it into public? I also entertain the notion that liked what he saw and, being socially awkward, hoped those magic words might make me beg for a date.

Too bad I didn’t have time to respond. “Oooh. Please, degrade me some more, sweet cakes. You’re a real catch. Let me shower up, and we can meet for a Busch Light later.”

His motives matter little to me. The way his action made me feel irritates me. I love and accept my voluptuous backside. Body image never posed an issue for me as a teen. Being picked on for my height taught me self-acceptance before I hit first grade. I didn’t even know my butt was "big," by societal standards anyway, until college.

In the spring of my freshman year, my friend and I were hanging out in the dorm room of a guy I liked. He answered his phone, and I overheard him say, “I’m hanging out with this girl who has a real ghetto booty.” Considering this was a small-town Wisconsin boy at a state school crawling with his type, I knew he’d been dying impress his buddies with that phrase – and be the first to spot one in the wild.

But, at that moment, I lost my innocence in the healthy body image department. For some reason, I knew he was talking about me, not my friend, and it stung. I was 19 and uber fit thanks to the rigors of running on the university’s cross-country team. As a matter of fact, I was so lean that my mom started to voice her concern. At some point after that night, I asked someone – I don’t know whom – to confirm that I had a “ghetto booty.” She circled around it by responding in that high-pitch tone that says yes but avoids honesty, “You have a cute butt.”

Before long, thanks to the admiration of others and musical homages to shapely female behinds, I realized what a commodity I’d been blessed with. If a guy didn’t like the junk in my trunk, then we weren’t meant to be. I shall never join the ranks of rail-thin women. No offense to them; I just wasn’t built that way. Through the years, my girlfriends playfully teased me about my J-Lo rear. At multiple (!!!) jobs, female coworkers have pulled me aside, blushing, to say some version of, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you have the cutest butt!”

Given my short stubs for legs, I must embrace what nature gave me in return. I like to think of it as my super power. It represents sexuality, strength and health.

Last year about this time – must be the season - some young boys called out to me during a run, “Hey fat butt lady.” I flashed a fake smile and continued on my way. Maybe one day, when they’re into chicks, they’ll find admiration for us bootylicious gals. Maybe they won’t. I just hope they grow up to respect women – and humanity in general – enough not to yell lewd and hateful remarks at them from car windows.

Yes, I realize this is trivial. Don’t tell me how people endure far worse in their daily lives; I know. And, I will not grant little people the power to make me feel insecure. Some people love harassing exercising people; of this I am also well aware. It’ll happen again before long.

Why do I care? In the end, I realize this incident upset me at a level that had nothing to do with my body image. It disheartens me that people in the world go out of their way to harm – or attempt to harm – others, especially others who are out enjoying life. There's an element of frustration for how tough it is to be a woman and feel good about your body, but I have to acknowledge society doesn't make it easy for men, either. Maybe if we all spent time playing each day, we’d play nicer.

And, I have to admit, this jerk provided a fun opportunity to write something self-indulgent about coming to know and accept my [excuse the pun] assets.

Rant over.

Love Songs

2011-02-14T16:11:00.001-06:00

Truth be told I don't indulge much in Valentine's Day. Although, I do adore any excuse to make a nice meal with my sweetie, sip on some red wine and gorge myself with quality chocolate.

Any occasion that inspires list-making also pleases me. So, I started considering what love songs I dig most. This lends itself to an extensive list rife with endless sub-category possibilities. Much like good lovers, good love songs range from sappy to edgy. It's all about how they make you feel.

When it comes to tunes that convey sexiness, romance and desire, these find themselves among my favorites. Here's my mix for V-Day 2011.

1. Love Buzz - Nirvana
2. Stand Inside My Love - Smashing Pumpkins
3. Just Like Heaven - The Cure
4. Cowboy Take Me Away - Dixie Chicks
5. Brandy Alexander - Feist
6. Thunder Road - Bruce Springsteen
7. You - REM
8. So Cruel - U2
9. Want You Bad - The Offspring

10. Wonderwall - Oasis
11. Sonnet - The Verve
12. I Found A Reason - Cat Power
13. The Luckiest - Ben Folds
14. Laid - James

XOXO

January - Stories She Read

2011-02-04T09:33:00.000-06:00

Just like adjusting to my new life in the new year, starting on my "100 books" mission proved a lesson in self-discipline and self-patience. But I'm on my way!

I never really track what I ingest when it comes to movies, music, books and such. This year, in I decided to be a little OCD - or mindful, if you prefer the positivity - about what I view, listen to and read as well as the recipes I try. (Note: I'm not blogging it all, just recapping the reads.)

Paging through my journal and seeing it in writing is eye opening and a little scary. It makes me thing of those poor souls whose lives are exposed on hoarding shows. What does this stuff say about me? I consider myself well-rounded, but I see the imbalance. Where do I need to step out and try new things? What will I learn? That's really the goal, to understand, explore and expand.

So, without putting much thought into it other than "what do I feel like reading?", here's what I read in January:

Truth and Beauty by Ann Patchett
Last year a friend suggested I read two memoirs: Lucy Grealy's Autobiography of a Face and this one. I managed to read Grealy's story in 2010, so I made Patchett's the first I read in 2011. It certainly came to me at just the right time. Truth and Beauty tells the story of Patchett and Greely's friendship, as well as their writing careers, from fledgling state to maturity. Patchett so vividly illustrates their journeys, triumphs and tribulations that the reader can't help but live them, too. Her observations on friendship, a writer's life and the human struggle frequently left me saying, "Yes! Yes! That's exactly it." It also left me fantasizing about the Iowa Writer's Workshop.

The Gunslinger by Stephen King
Because I missed out on the series' last three books - some excuse about finishing college and juggling multiple internships - I decided to go back and revisit the first four to refresh. This time around, having read King's memoir On Writing, I ingested his prose more mindfully and allowed myself to fully appreciate each brilliantly crafted scene. The man doesn't write about worlds; he truly creates them. And in this haunting tale of Roland the gunslinger's quest for the Dark Tower, I relish not only the adventure, but that which it leaves me pondering.

Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell
For years this title resided on my "to read" list. The premise: When it comes to those "rags to riches" success stories we eat up, there's more than meets the eye. In true investigative style, Gladwell digs deep - and that's the only way I like to dig - into the stories behind some mammoth achievers. He also explores why some with great potential never amount to much. I finished this a week ago, but I continue pondering the message. At times I felt discouraged. It seemed to say much happens because all the right elements are present. But, really, the message is positive and empowering. It comes down to recognizing and seizing opportunities. They're not always handed over on a silver platter.

Learn to Meditate by David Fontana
Another book that sat on my list for years, Learn to Meditate, provided a nice overview on "how to" and the various philosophies in meditation. Information is presented in an interesting and digestible format that does not subscribe to any particular religion. I'd already encountered much of this through yoga, world religion classes and books, and a Zen-based workshop in mindfulness and depression. Nonetheless, I have yet to build a true daily meditation practice, something I believe can be an enormous benefit to health, well-being and creativity. This book provided several useful exercises to help me take baby steps in the right direction.

That's it. Over all, I chose more thematic topics for my February reading list. I think I'll wait to reveal them after the fact. Thanks to all who responded to my initial post with suggestions; keep them coming!

Day 6: From Glenwood to Gritty

2011-01-25T12:17:00.000-06:00

"It's Sunday morning, October 31, and I am trying to muster the enthusiasm I need to get out and explore Cheyenne. It's not my favorite. I wish I weren't so cranky."
- My journal entry

The night before I left Glenwood Springs, I bellied up to the bar for dinner and engaged in conversation with a delightful local couple whom I hope to see again one day. After feeling so at home in Colorado, I feared the rest would pale in comparison.

"Don't worry," they reassured me. "You have a great adventure ahead of you."

After hearing my itinerary, they seemed to agree with my statement.

Following my detour to Steamboat Springs the next day, I grew irritable and melancholy. As the landscape around me transitioned from glistening, white mountainscape to earth-toned prairie, I tried to find the root. On any other day, Wyoming called to me as home. On this day, however, I resented it. It pulled me away from a paradise I did not yet want to leave.

Forget ranches and rodeos. Screw wide, open spaces. On Sunday, October 31, I awoke in my Cheyenne hotel room loathing it all. Here marks the point at which my trip lost its romance. Not every day promised cathartic walks in the woods and tear-inducing beauty. Nope. Most stops on this adventure resembled real life - my real life anyway.

At dusk, the densely packed truck stops surrounding my hotel seemed like seedy hotbeds for crime and sex, but dawn revealed them to be legitimate roadside respites. Cheyenne looked better by daylight, but it certainly did not glisten. As I charted my course for the day and set out to the first stop, the city felt as vast as it had when I'd arrived at sunset. Industrial buildings fenced the parameters. A historic downtown with vacant Sunday morning streets looked as weathered and handsome as an old cowboy. The park where I played as a toddler seemed an idyllic gathering place for families with its sprawling land, clusters of trees and clear, blue lake. Wyoming's capital and largest city offered a welcoming small-town vibe.

Here, my parents lived near close friends from Minnesota, and our families frequently spent time together. Our outdoor adventures confined themselves to city limits. My mother worked for a rodeo supply company that no longer exists while my father ran a fast-food franchise that currently houses a Mexican restaurant. They enjoyed their work. Neither conjured up grand memories from this place and time, just generally pleasant reflections on a great community. Without spending several days, I left with the same impression.

When I asked the hotel receptionist "what was the one thing I should do before I left," she half-chuckled and paused before telling me not much happened outside of the Frontier Days rodeo and recommending a restaurant downtown. I know Cheyenne offers much more, including some engaging history museums, a charming downtown and nice people. I enjoyed a meal for one in that restaurant, and one summer I hope to return to catch that famous rodeo, too.

Day 5: My Prequel

2011-01-19T13:49:00.000-06:00

After revisiting Grizzly Creek at sunrise, I left Glenwood Springs for my first detour: Steamboat Springs. Some might call it my trip's "prequel" stage.

Before my parents tied the knot and long before I showed up on the scene, my dad lived the ultimate bachelor life as a chef at the Scandinavian Lodge in Steamboat Springs. Throughout my childhood, I listened in awe as he spun tales of skiing in Champagne powder, preparing headcheese and befriending future Olympians. It all seemed so glamorous. After all, our people traditionally participated in agribusiness, logging and homemaking. Visiting Colorado without paying homage to my father's alter ego, affectionately known as "Jimmy-O," was out of the question.

This side trip doubled as a lesson in preparedness - a lesson that undoubtedly contributed to a generally incident-free journey. Guess what? When you leave the interstate, "they" don't provide gas stations every 20 miles. And, do you know what else? In a world where GPS makes travel easy and almost thoughtless, one certainly benefits from glancing at a map anyway.

Eager to flee from the main drag, I figured gas might be an option after I left I-70 for CO-131. Wrong. As my tank ticked closer to E, I realized returning to my point of origin proved my safest bet. Yep. In all, I wasted about 1.5 hours, but I figured it was better than being stranded on a two-lane road without cell service and few passers by who might bail me out.

Looking back on my childhood, I thought times were different. Sure, throughout the decades the areas we lived have become more developed, but it turns out I simply forgot what it was to live out West and slightly removed from a metropolitan area. (Later in my adventure, this reality became even more evident.)

I made it to Steamboat without incident, enjoying the "rustic" route (which I know from experience was hardly rustic at all) and wondering where people in towns that appeared to be nothing more than small clusters of homes sent their children to school and procured necessities.

My dad's old workplace now houses condominiums, but I stood in the parking lot and searched for the ghosts of his youth. I visited the history center to get a feel for this ski town's past. I walked through town down near the ski jump, then looked the other direction to the ski-run-covered mountain, trying to envision the early 70s when he came out here to live his passions: cooking and skiing.

Both here and at Grizzly Creek, I understood that experiences predating our memory - and even our existence - form us. These places are very much the essence of the woman I am.

In Colorado, I found my spiritual home.

Day 4: The Snapshot

2011-01-12T15:09:00.000-06:00

I'm a first-born and a first grandchild on one side. That means hundreds - maybe thousands - of family photographs immortalize my early years. I know them all, and they helped immensely as I planned my trip. The one below remains my favorite.

I don't know how old I am exactly, but it comes from our Colorado months. The colorful leaves and snowy mountains frame my youthful, denim-clad mother, smiling with me in her arms. This is the romanticized version of my childhood, afternoons spent frolicking in mountainside villages, picnicking in the park and exploring off the beaten path with the Land Cruiser.

Returning to the site of the shot made my "must-see" list. Turns out it required driving a mere 41 miles from Glenwood Springs to Aspen. I don't know if what Aspen was like in 1979, but I certainly had a preconceived notion of Aspen in 2010. It definitely included a class I didn't belong to and financial status beyond my wildest dreams.

As I searched for a place to park my car, I noticed a handful of twiggy women with shampoo-commercial hair walking down the street in knee-high leather boots, leggings and down vests. My own layered look included six-year-old Dansko clogs, outdated boot-cut jeans with a short-sleeve Twin Six T-shirt over a long-sleeve T-shirt. Certainly, I looked chubby, frumpy and out of my league. Spotting an old VW bus with Paddington Bear painted on the side calmed me. Why must I allow judgments and generalizations to make me feel inferior?

I strolled downtown Aspen as a fraud, undetected. Despite the abundant and enticing retail options, I chose not to patronize any stores. Early in this adventure I finally admitted and accepted that I dislike shopping without purpose. Momentarily, I entertained visiting a psychic as it seemed the thing one should do on a journey such as mine. Then I decided she couldn't tell me anything about my destiny I didn't already suspect.

My mission included one thing: finding the photograph. And I did. The trees sprouted 31 years higher, but I recognized the spot instantly. (I failed to bring the original shot with me, however, so the angle is off. ::Sigh:: See the peak on the far left for verification.)

After slithering into an underground coffee shop that touted itself as the local favorite to consume a delightful veggie and hummus sandwich and a cup of coffee - the sign did not lie - I headed back to my car to spend the rest of the day in my a mountain town that felt more like home. (Back in Glenwood Springs, the remainder of my day included the history museum, wandering downtown and an Italian feast with some wonderful strangers I hope to see again.)

Day 3: Sacred Places

2011-01-10T16:06:00.000-06:00

On October 28, I took a final cruise through Longmont, fueled up with coffee and ascended into the Rockies. Destination: Glenwood Springs.

There's a reason people rave about the "fresh mountain air" ad nauseam. It seeped through my windows, shimmied up my nostrils and altered my mind. Deep, extended inhalations served to embed it into my olfactory memory. The GPS woman emphatically told me to "make a legal U-turn" and head back toward Denver. I could not quit saying "Oh my God, this is incredible" through water eyes as the sweeping blue sky diminished and gargantuan, snowy masses grew up around me.

This was the Colorado my parents came for in their early 20s.

At only 7 months old in August 1979, I certainly did not form a memory of this place. As I pulled into a rest stop just outside downtown Glenwood Springs in 2010, however, I began to realize life-shaping influences may transcend memories.

Today, Grizzly Creek Rest Stop provides bathrooms for travelers and a hiking trail for nature lovers. Thirty-two years ago, I called it home. My parents rented a place from some folks who operated a white water rafting place on-site. My mother walked with me from our house on the hillside down to the creek where she would dip my toes in the cool water. Shortly after we left, the state of Colorado began constructing a four-lane highway through the site. The house was demolished. I love that a rest stop with a hiking trail now resides there.

I skittishly left my car for the sidewalk snaking its way along the Colorado River's banks. Rest stops are, after all, hotbeds for rape, murder and drugs. Or so too many episodes of "Unsolved Mysteries" taught me in my formative years. One is luck to survive a visit to these crime beds that lure you in with toilets and drinking water.

Despite this harrowing fact, I braved it and followed the path around the building, under the roadway above and back to a place in the woods where the official hiking trail began. Grizzly Creek sparkled in the mid-day sun. I wandered off the path to experience the space in seclusion, trying to envision the old, brown house just above me, feeling the layers of my past and present. Here, my appreciation for nature began. From the sound of it, we practically lived outdoors during our brief stint in Glenwood Springs. Our home provided but a shelter to return to after hiking or four-wheeling in my parents' legendary powder blue Toyota Landcruiser.

Every other structure I once called home still stands, but I know I can always find refuge in this place where only the land remains. It may be my greatest comfort. Certainly, it is my most sacred place.

Read more about Day 3 here.

Scenes from Grizzly Creek:

A resolution to read

2011-01-06T12:32:00.000-06:00

In first grade I read 100 books in a month. As one of a handful at Northern Hills Elementary School who met this challenge head on, I earned not only a T-shirt advertising my accomplishment, but also recognition at an all-school assembly as well as a book donated in my name to the school library.

For the record, I chose Claude the Dog: A Christmas Story. And, now that I reflect on the many awards I raked in for reading and writing as a youngster, I think my adult passion for pizza must be directly linked to my childhood hunger for books. All those Book-It personal pan pizzas had a Pavlovian impact.

Anyway …

You could hardly pry my little fingers off a book from the time I could toddle to my bookshelf until, well, the public-transit-free periods in my twenties. (Yes, I moved around a lot. Imagine that.)

The pages truly stopped flipping when we left Chicago in 2007. Driving myself through hell and back from Minneapolis proper to the northeast suburbs cramped my reading time. In Chicago, my commute on the El guaranteed a minimum reading time of 1.5 to 2 hours daily. When Twin Cities’ freeways called, I essentially quit picking up books and magazines.

Then, in 2010, I came to the shocking realization that I controlled how I spent my waking hours. Reading time was fairly abundant; I just chose to use it some other way, namely, on the Internet. That’s when I re-evaluated and got reacquainted with words on paper.

It seems like I read a lot last; however, reflection provided a mere 10 titles. On the other hand, that’s about nine more than 2009. It’s a short list, but I took something away from each book on it.

What I read in 2010

Anatomy of the Spirit – Caroline Myss

Annie’s Ghosts – Steve Luxenberg

Autobiography of a Face – Lucy Grealy

Eat, Pray, Love – Elizabeth Gilbert

The Glass Castle – Jeannette Walls

High Fidelity – Nick Hornby

How to Be Good – Nick Hornby

Mornings on Horseback: The Story of an Extraordinary Family, a Vanished Way of Life and the Unique Child Who Became Theodore Roosevelt – David McCullough

The Prince of Tides – Pat Conroy

This is Not the Story You Think it Is – Laura Munson

Since I’m a list and personal challenge nerd, the day before New Year's Eve I decided to come up with some actual reading goals for 2011. It started as a way to finally pick up some neglected classics and chip away at a list of recommendations. In the process, I decided to aim high - it's the only way I know how. I want to read 100 books in the next 12 months. That means eight books per month. No T-shirt or all-school assembly recognition hang in the balance - I just get the satisfaction of expanding my literary repertoire.

Please offer some book suggestions in the comments – any genre. What are your favorites? Has any one book left an impact on your life? Is there a book you reread from time to time? Would your jaw drop if someone said they hadn’t read __________ ?

Day 2: The Other Colorado

2010-12-10T10:29:00.001-06:00

On my journey's second day, I woke up in Lincoln, Neb., for the big drive to Longmont, Colo. [see here and here for Day 2 posts]. My expectations were low following my mother's disappointment-laced recollection and my husband's "isn't that some town on the prairie near Denver" comment. From these reactions, I expected quite the dive.

The story goes like this: Moments after my mother unpacked our last box in March 1979, the phone rang. My dad broke the news that, yes, they'd just moved in a couple of weeks prior, but he was already being transferred to a restaurant in Glenwood Springs.

As she told me this story, I gulped. "Oh. What did you say?" I asked, gripping myself to hear about some horrible fight they had. Turns out it made her day. She told me how disappointed she was in Longmont. When she and my dad decided to leave Minnesota for Colorado, she envisioned life nestled in the Rockies. Now they taunted her from afar. Visible, but just out of reach.

Perhaps, much like seeing a slapstick comedy, going in prepared for the worst helped. Longmont exceeded my expectations.

Longmont seemed a blend of new housing developments for those with higher incomes, well-preserved historic dwellings and blue-collar enclaves with a thriving downtown. Everything seemed cobbled together to accommodate growth - in the best possible way. It didn't reek of suburbia or feel like a dying small town. I understood how it let my mother down; this wasn't the version of Colorado she envisioned.

Maybe it was my yet-to-be-tamed enthusiasm for the adventure before me, but I kind of adored Longmont. This prairie town at the foothills of the Rocky Mountains charmed me from the moment I realized I was driving toward snow-capped peaks, not just more fluffy, white clouds. Besides, part of me longs for prairie towns the way others yearn for the seaside. Above all else, when I think about my childhood, vast, windy expanses filled with native grasses and gnarly shrubs dominate my memories.

Even the view from my Super 8 took my breath away. Here are some photos from my drive and arrival.

Heading West - Nebraska

Entering Colorado!

Just outside Longmont

Longmont at sunset

View from the municipal pool

View from my hotel

On the outskirts of town

Day 1, Part 2: Born

2010-12-07T11:32:00.000-06:00

The first thing which I can record concerning myself is that I was born. These are wonderful words. This life, to which neither time nor eternity can bring diminution - this everlasting living soul, began. My mind loses itself in these depths. - Groucho Marx

First stop: Mankato, Minn.

It seems all roads lead to Minnesota. I entered this world in the land of Paul Bunyan; well, I suppose Mankato is closer to the land of the Jolly Green Giant. We traipsed around the country for awhile and returned during my teen years. Upon high school graduation I darted for the border, then pinged around the Midwest during much of my twenties and settled in, you guessed it, Minnesota. There's a lot of life ahead of me, so who knows if this is a "full circle" deal.

It struck me that my first four destinations preceded memory. How odd to visit a place knowing it held significance in your life despite your inability to recall it. These places exist only through photos and others' stories. What impression did they actually leave on me?

A park with a fitting name

Much like visiting the towns where my parents, grandparents and great grandparents grew up or even historically significant places, entering the foreign lands of my youngest years elicited that barely tangible sensation that ignites in one's solar plexus and washes through the body like a wave, like some sort of energy amalgamation. Does this result merely from the mind attaching importance to place, or is it something more?

The heavy rain kept my stint in Mankato brief. I pulled up to the six-story, brick hospital where I arrived on January 9, 1979. Rumor has it there was a lot of snow that day. On my 30th birthday, my mother recounted my birth day. She confessed that, overwhelmed by first-time mother sentiments, she couldn't get over how precious I was and almost named me Precious Angel. I thanked her for not sealing my fate and sending me into the world on the fast-track to stripperdom.

Typically, I view hospitals as places for sickness and sadness. Staring at this plain, institutional structure, I shifted my perception and realized they are also places for life and joy. Nearly 32 years ago my then 19-year-old mother and 24-year-old father welcomed their first child. I stopped by my first home and dined at the fast food restaurant my father managed, and I reflected on what their young lives were like.

While difficult to pinpoint exactly how Mankato as a place fits into my psyche, I can identify the foundation my parents built there: a simple life filled with immense love, music and a bohemian spirit.

Day 1, Part 1: Bright-Eyed and Optimistically Heading for Certain Doom

2010-12-06T14:52:00.001-06:00

On Tuesday, October 26, I stuffed my little, gray hatchback with what I estimated to be one month's worth of necessities, kissed my husband goodbye and headed westward wondering if this journey signified a step toward something profoundly life changing or confirmed the fact that, yes, I had finally gone batshit crazy and no one possessed the kahonas to tell me to my face.

Through the veil of thick, heavy raindrops streaking my passenger-side window, I took one last look at my house and absorbed the fact that four weeks would pass before I returned. For some reason this failed to cross my mind before and now surprised me.

Was I nervous leading up to this departure? Not on your life. Excited? Yes!

You see, as a child, I looked upon every move as an adventure. I still remember telling my sixth grade teacher that we were relocating from Snohomish, Wash., to Red Wing, Minn. The words leaped from my mouth through a gigantic grin, and she remarked - with alarm - that I seemed excited about it. And her reaction shocked me. Duh. Of course I was. Rather, I had been, until I entered 7th grade in that small, Midwestern town and realized I'd been robbed of spending my teen years just outside of Seattle at the height of the Grunge Era. Talk about the bait and switch. It took me well into my twenties to forgive my parents for that tremendous lapse in judgment.

But, I digress.

As I pulled away from the curb, enveloped in the gray, wet, dreariness, I wondered who I might be upon my return to that same curb in 25 to 30 days. At the moment I left, I became conscious that in embarking on this hometown scavenger hunt of sorts, I accepted things would be different afterward. In choosing this trip, in searching for a deeper understanding of my life, I was almost daring the universe and God and all that determines our fate, "Hey, you, show me what you've got. Turn my world upside down."

Momentarily, I worried about my marriage, family and friends. What if I decided to leave them to live in a mountain commune where I raised goats and made hemp clothing? A friend once told me about some woman in Oregon who makes cheese by wearing it in a pouch around her waist. Surely her life started out in the worldly definition of normal; she probably worked in a cubicle at a Fortune 500 company before throwing caution to the wind and embracing a life devoted to intimately made dairy products. I love my husband immensely, but what if some cattle-roping cowboy swept me off my feet in a Wyoming bar and asked me to be his ranch hand? Could I resist tossing my beloved black, Italian leather boots for a pair of American-made, shit-stomping cowgirl boots and swapping my stable of sleek bicycles for some real stallions to ride through the prairie? (Never mind that, while cowboys delight me and I freely admit to indulging in televised Professional Bull Riding, cattle and horses terrify me.) What if living on a houseboat in the Puget Sound alone with my thoughts and a handful of cats did seem like my calling in life?

And what about the trip itself? What if I ran out of gas on some remote country road only to be descended upon by angry cattle (a la flashbacks to a very real and very horrible biking incident from last summer), or got a flat while out of cell coverage or was stalked from state to state by a psycho killer? Leading up to my departure, I focused so intently on the thrill that I forgot to worry - and I worry like a champ. I'm a fatalistic, hypochondriac, worst-case-scenario junkie - at least I used to be.

Believe me, I churned out some colorful scenarios while sipping a celebratory full-fat mocha - with whipped cream - and driving my first 82 miles. They served only to entertain. As for any real concern, I decided not to dwell on the outcome. Instead, I regressed to the little girl who approached each family move with the anticipation, faith and optimism children usually reserved for birthdays, Christmas morning and grandparent visits. I opened my arms and mind wide, eagerly welcoming the unknown.

Life on the Road

2010-11-30T12:53:00.000-06:00

One of these days
I wanna go home
Visit my friends
And see all the places that I used to know

And say goodbye
To a world that's too real
Goodbye to a world
That's forgotten how to feel

And it's slowly usin' me
And there's no security
Sometimes I hate the road
But it's the only life I know
- Lyrics from "Life on the Road" by The Kinks

Fourteen states. Thirty and one half days. Nearly 9,000 miles. Countless obsessive statistics left to compile. This trip may require a month for catch-up and recovery. Many posts wait. I mostly ditched the Internet after Boulder. To be frank, I hardly missed it. I'll make it up to you now. I promise.

Briefly, here are 10 things I learned:
1. Traveling is critical to my happiness.
Moving around a lot provided abundant adventure. As a child I loved it and always looked forward to the next uprooting. Now I like to have a "base camp," but getting out in the world ignites my creativity, makes me feel at home and whole and provides me with a sense of well being.

2. I have too much stuff.
While I did not live out of my car for a month, I lived out of it. I used half of what I packed. The words "I hate shopping" actually slipped out of my mouth at one point in matter-of-fact way. The authenticity of those words shocked me. They were true, not just sensational dialogue. Now that I am home, I am in major purge mode.

3. You can go home again.
I reconnected with people I hadn't seen or spoken to in 10 to 20+ years. Spending time with them never felt awkward or artificial. Over dinner, one of them remarked that in childhood we offer one another our true selves. We do not cloak ourselves in pretense. In each reunion I experienced each of these women - and myself - as grown up versions of the children we were.

4. And yet, you can't go home again.
In the cities where no contacts remained, which were most of them, I could only drift through like a ghost. The places once important to me were simply buildings filled with new life. Only memories connected me to them.

5. There are many ways to live this life.
I constantly struggle with owning my decisions. I second guess myself and get stuck neck-deep in indecisiveness. Options and possibilities seduce me. Driving around the country made this trait worse and better. I kept asking, "What if?" However, I also found comfort in the twisted path of my own life and was reminded that it never has to be stagnant, even if I associate staying in one place as slipping into dull obscurity.

6. Cows rule the world.
Grazing cattle everywhere! Each state provided an endless supply of cud-chewing denizens. I could not believe they were even left out to pasture in sub-zero temps. Their stark black bodies frosted in a thick blanket of snow, they looked like beef cupcakes. Apparently cows do not shiver or shake.

7. A lot of hauling happens while you and I go about our daily lives.
Of course things travel from point A to point B. Nothing magically appears. While we slog away at our 9-to-5 gigs, people move shit around the world for us to consume. Being on highways, along railroads and at ports, I saw plenty of hauling beyond your typical semi truck cargo and trailers filled with cars - truck toppers, fire hydrants, airplane bodies, helicopters, other semis, tanks, golf carts ... I never stop to think about the transportation of goods. It's really quite remarkable.

8. I didn't miss much.
I didn't miss my house. I didn't even miss Minneapolis. I missed my friends and my family, riding my bikes, cooking meals and sitting on my worn-in leather sofa with a heavy blanket. That's pretty much it. Everything else - writing, reading and recreating - could be done on the road

9. The sky is magnificent.
Logging all those miles made me realize the extraordinary sky. With the exception of a single day, I never grew tired while driving. I believe the ever-changing skyline kept me alert and in awe. I loved watching the cloud patterns, sunrises and sunsets as the landscape changed from vast and open to narrow with towering mountains. This is something we really miss out on in daily life.

10. I've got to be honest with myself, I'm not a city gal.
I love cities. I adored Chicago. After two hours New York City, I fantasized about planting myself amidst its masses. I like the distraction, anonymity and chaos. I grew up near big cities at times, but never in them. I never lived in a suburb, though some of those towns are now sort of outer-ring suburbs. Driving on open roads and visiting small towns I felt most at ease and most like myself. In my mind, Seattle has always been closest to heaven. This trip heaved the city off its pedestal. Sure every place has its drawbacks. No, I'm not leaving Minneapolis; Chris and I have our own home here in the neighborhood where we met and fell in love. I'm just saying I could die quite happily in a small western town where stores are closed on Saturday and Sunday and people wear cowboy hats and wave at you as you pass their trucks on the road. (All of that is true. I experienced it several times.)

Off the top of my head, those are a few things 30 days on the road taught me. Above all, it reinforced the following things, which I already suspected:
• Growing up all over the place was a tremendous gift
• I want to travel as much as possible and write about it
• My relationships are what make my life worth living
• I can make myself at home anywhere as long as there's access to decent coffee
• As the John Mayer song I love states, the heart of life is good. With exception of a cranky barista (isn't that in the job description anyway?) and some angry drivers, the people at every mile were nothing but kind. We're all just trying to do our best in this world.

Back "Home" ... Whatever that is

2010-11-30T12:34:00.004-06:00

I arrived in Red Wing, my last stop on the great "Jenifer Kay Dorsey Childhood Residential Tour," late Thanksgiving morning navigating the old VW sleigh through blizzard-like conditions for several days - most of them in Montana, which, for the record, is enormous.

Rather than spending the coveted Thanksgiving Eve at the Red Wing bars running into high school classmates, I escaped the blowing snow, wicked cold and temptation to continue driving late into the night on less than ideal roads by downing hot wings and Oberon while watching basketball in the safety of a Fargo Hooters. I never claimed to be a classy gal.

Thanksgiving morning I set out before sunrise with Chris at my side - he joined me for the ride home, which I will explain in the future. Although I generally boycott businesses on holidays, I caved. Never has a stop at Caribou for a warm, earthy cup of coffee delighted me so. Five hours later, we pulled up to my mother's house and were welcomed by the smell of roasting turkey and the embraces of my four siblings. Only my dad emerging from the kitchen with an oven mitt and some silly dance would have made it more perfect, but since my parents are no longer together, the previous night's phone call sufficed.

Following the Dorsey Thanksgiving, Chris and I trekked to the suburbs for Fischer Thanksgiving. Right before we left the Fischer festivities, my sister-in-law asked if I was looking forward to going back to the house. Her question caught me off guard. I couldn't really answer directly and mumbled something about already being with Chris and spending the day with family. It surprised me, but going to the house wasn't a big deal. What being back in my element might feel like never crossed my mind.

When we pulled up to our Minneapolis residence at 10:30 p.m., the only thing that excited me was knowing I would soon sleep on my extra-firm mattress. Walking through the front door, I felt nothing, only gratitude that Chris cleaned. This moment offered no tears or dramatic scene. It was practically void of emotion and terribly underwhelming. Through a lifetime of shifting from one dwelling to the next, a house is but a shell to me. Somehow I did recognize this about myself until Thanksgiving 2010.

Around 2:30 in the morning I awoke in a panicked sweat as I felt my way around the dark room, desperately seeking a light switch. (For the record, there are none on the bedrooms of our 106-year-old home.)

"Chris, turn on the light," I cried, as I found myself at the window pulling back the blinds to reveal a moonlit and snow-covered ground as well as the neighbor's home, which I couldn't recognize.

As the lamp illuminated the room and I could see the big oak dresser I've had since childhood, it took me several moments to identify my location. I trembled and whimpered like a small child as Chris stroked my back and drifted back into sleep. This terror-filled scene has plagued my slumber since childhood, but that instance was, without doubt, the most dreadful and comforting.

The next morning I woke feeling more rested than I'd been since we put Val down and wondering what to expect. Forget Black Friday. I’d sooner step into a cloud of angry wasps. The day before I set out to return to Minnesota, my immune system took a nosedive, and I am on day 13 of the worst cold I've had in a decade. I decided to take unpack while also taking it easy. So, I sorted laundry, made tuna melts and – for the first time in my life – watched “What Not to Wear.” Mundane? Yes. Completely wonderful? Absolutely. So good to be “home.”

Time off

2010-11-11T10:42:00.000-06:00

This trip is a small-scale replication of my family's many moves. That may be obvious, but I failed to really consider exactly how when I departed from Minneapolis two weeks ago. All the packing, unpacking, settling in, leaving town, finding a place to stay, getting to know an area and driving hundreds of miles takes a toll on you mentally and physically.

I decided I needed a few days off. And, as long as the trip from Edmond, Oklahoma, to Gillette, Wyoming, was 936 miles, I decided to make it 1,076 by forgoing another round of Kansas and Nebraska and instead passing through northern Texas, the northeaster corner of New Mexico and eastern Colorado. As long as I was going to be in Colorado, I decided to make it a little vacation. Colorado, you see, now calls to me like drugs to a junkie. Any way I can get my fix, I'll take it.

First, I decided Colorado Springs might make a nice layover. I envisioned two nights holed away in a secluded bed and breakfast. Then, I arrived. This time of year few places look too pretty. I can't judge. However, this brown, bustling city did not meet my expectations. It seemed dumpy. I wanted snow-capped mountains.

Since a new time zone and daylight saving time had given me two free hours, I chose to press on to Boulder instead. Less than two hours away, Boulder could not disappoint. It did not. Immediately, however, I tossed out the B&B fantasy at hundreds per night and instead booked something with two digits through Hotwire.

Boulder scooped me up in its arms and cradled me. I enjoyed two glorious days of hiking (although slightly on edge with all the mountain lion/bear info at the trailheads), taking in the mountain view from my impressively appointed budget hotel room's balcony, sipping the most delicious and spicy Chai tea at the exquisite Boulder Dushanbe Tea House, visiting a friend I hadn't seen in 10 years and spending a fantastic evening with her, her husband and their neighbors, and strolling Pearl Street. I also took the Celestial Seasonings facility tour where I OD's on free tea samples, went to a movie, enjoyed a dip in the pool, received an inexpensive but fabulous massage (after which the therapist asked if I was an athlete, bless her) and just sat around reading and writing. Bliss. Bliss. Bliss.

Oh, and I also called Chris through homesick tears wondering what the heck I was thinking when I decided this was a good idea. He coaxed me off the ledge, and I hunkered down in a dark movie theater with some buttered popcorn and a diet Coke. Movie theaters have always been my refuge.

Yesterday, I scooted off for the final leg of my trip - now filled with gratitude once more. Snow dusted the golden Wyoming prairie and the sky changed repeatedly from clear to thick and cloudy. Absolutely gorgeous.

Here are some shots from my Boulder visit:

The view from my room

Hiking Chautauqua


Pearl Street

Boulder Dushanbe Tea House

Hiking Sanitas

Prettiest mocha I've ever sipped

Celestial Seasonings - Perfect

The Okie in Me

2010-11-09T09:53:00.000-06:00

Never did I expect to react so strongly to the land of red dirt and oil. Yet, Oklahoma burrowed its way into my heart. The people charmed me with their warm demeanor. In the three days I explored Edmond and Oklahoma City, everywhere I went it seemed I was greeted with a smile and pleasant conversation.

My "signature look" these days - short-sleeve T-shirt over long-sleeve T-shirt topped off with a light lavender down vest and black Dansko clogs - seemed perfectly natural in Colorado. However, pulling up to the gas station in Edmond with my dirt-covered VW Golf, I immediately noticed a striking blonde woman in a jet-black, mid-size Infinity. Everything was in place down to the creases in the black Pashmina shawl draped around her shoulders. More than polished, this belle was poised and powerful.

"So this is the mythological Southern woman," I thought. I looked around and seemed to see only bottle blondes in sleek cars. I started having flashbacks to a trip to Dallas a few summers back. The people were so pretty. I quickly took my car through the wash.

My hypersensitivity to the former beauty queen types waned and I simply noticed people of all sorts who simply took pride in their appearances - not in a vain, fake tan, starving thin sort of way. Just styled hair, crisp clothes and a healthy glow.

My mom told me she learned we dressed poorly when we moved to Oklahoma. Some dear friends took her under their wing and helped her out in that department. Now I understood.

I also identified where my more feminine attributes blossomed. Oklahoma represents an important foundation for many areas of my life. I began my formal and religious educations there, both of which I indulged with great excitement. Few things ignited me the way school and church could. I read books the way most kids play video games. Essentially, I planned out my future at age 5, telling my mother I would go to elementary school, then high school and then college. I wanted to be a veterinarian, an actress and an author. I was bound and determined to take on the world.

In this place I participated in my first athletic pursuit - soccer - which I adored. On the other hand, I also received my first perm, zealously watched Miss America pageants, admired Mary Lou Retton and became obsessed with pretty dresses. A hunky boyfriend who looked like a Ken doll and played football seemed the ideal for when I hit my teen years.

Then, we moved to rural Wyoming. Talk about culture shock.

Fragments

2010-11-09T09:11:00.000-06:00

Believe it or not, when considering mileage, my trip is more than halfway complete. I've visited my childhood homes in Mankato, Minn.; Longmont, Colo.; Glenwood Springs, Colo.; Cheyenne, Wyo.; Hampton, Iowa; Hutchinson, Minn.; and Edmond, Okla.

I've traveled these destinations in chronological order, which means multiple trips through certain states. As wonderful as this entire journey has been, some days have been down right exhausting. I can not imagine how my parents uprooted themselves so frequently. Settling into my hotel room, exploring a place, then packing up and leaving a day or two later strains me. Then, I think about the short periods of time we spent embedding ourselves within each community only to pack up and do it all over again.

There has been no formula for my journey. I stay at each place until it seems natural to leave. Upon my departure, irritability and sorrow frequently visit. I observe them and ask them questions in an attempt to understand. I grieve each loss.

Really, that is one of the major gifts this trip has given me: closure.

Until recent years, my life seemed one giant identity crisis. My upbringing felt so scattered. While I loved the adventure and never viewed it as a negative way to live, as I neared adulthood and entered my early 20s, I wondered "what if?" Who would I have been had I grown up in any one of those places? Frequently I thought, "Maybe I belong [insert city] or [insert another city]."

At each stop, I can identify who I am as a result of growing up in all of these places as a part of the family I was born into. I doubt my wanderlust shall ever wane (I hear that is a Scandinavian thing), but as I make peace with my past, I feel it can become an asset as opposed to a burden.

During one of our moves, my mother's friend gave her a magnet that stated "Bloom where you are planted." Maybe it seems trite, but it also seems profound as I roam this country. Live in the moment. Be the best you can be wherever you live, whatever you do and whoever surrounds you. Don't dwell on the past or anticipate the future. Just be.

Flying solo

2010-11-05T01:32:00.000-05:00

I must confess: I have never been to Europe. My farthest journeys stretch into western Canada and Mexico's Yucatan Peninsula. I always wanted to go abroad alone, to indulge in that early 20s, middle-class rite of passage involving youth hostels, discotheques, castles, museums, beer, trains and backpacks. I longed to meet other young nomads, make friends with local students and stuff my address book with global contacts. I thought, "What could be better than taking a life-changing trip and returning filled with self-discovery before you earned your diploma and headed out to conquer the working world?"

Thanks to money and mental health, I didn't do college the traditional way, which meant the great adventure abroad never fit with the plan. I got married before I earned my four-year degree. By the time I did mark that education milestone, my age fell (much) closer to 30 than 20. I landed a decent job, then took on the 9-to-5 lifestyle and a mortgage. Life became busy, new thrills presented themselves and priorities shifted. Travel to another continent made the "one day soon" list. Taking a solo journey never seemed realistic.

On day three of my current adventure, it hit me: This odyssey is my great 20-something Europe trip - only I'm 30-something and driving around America with my car and a few bags.

On day three of my current adventure, this fact also hit me: I am traveling alone.

I'd arrived in Glenwood Springs, Colorado, and hell if I wasn't going hiking. My parents told me about our frequent hikes to Hanging Lake when I was an infant, and I knew I had to retrace our footsteps. I headed to the trail, grabbed some water and strapped on my boots. The late-afternoon sun illuminated the canyon walls and poured through the trees, casting a golden hue over everything. Distracted by this beauty and high off the pure, crisp mountain air, I charged ahead in complete wonderment. Every few feet I paused to deeply inhale the incredible oxygen and gush over my surroundings.

As I climbed upward and several hikers passed me on their descent, my imagination went amok. I became acutely aware of the fact that it was just me and Mother Nature out there. My daylight was limited. What if I ended up feeling my way back in the dark and getting completely lost and left for dead? And what about predetors? Some wild animal might consider me a tasty snack. Some crazy person could be lurking, just waiting for a lone, female hiker to attack. Or what about injury? The snow was packed and icy, what if I slipped and hit my head? I didn't want to be one of those "hiker meets an unfortunate fate" headlines.

I started singing aloud in an effort to make noise and, I suppose, calm my nerves. I thought of a family member who hikes alone all the time. I'd always admired her "I'm not waiting around for anyone to join me" spirit as she heads out the door to a local trail or flies off to Switzerland or Germany to wander through the wilderness. Only now did I fully appreciate her courage.

I picked up the pace and stopped taking so many pictures. Then, the trail seemed to disappear and a bunch of rocks stacked steeply upward appeared with a railing to the right. That iron bar wasn't stopping anyone who slipped; it merely provided a place to put your hand for stability. The sign at the trailhead had warned this was "difficult."

Hanging Lake's clear, turquoise waters greeted me just beyond that treacherous incline. Looking out past the real barrier between me and a quick fall to death, I saw snow-covered evergreens and sun-drenched canyon walls. Momentarily, my solar plexus panged with longing as I wished Chris were there to share it with me - or my parents who introduced this place to me before I can even remember. Then, I smiled. How unreal to stand alone in such greatness. As far as I'm convinced, a moment of solitude in God's creation recharges the soul like nothing else.

Following several minutes of standing in awe and gasping in disbelief, I glanced at my watch, reminded myself there was plenty of time and scurried down that mountain allowing the icy patches to carry me. I lingered near the bottom as the sun inched farther behind the canyon walls, relieved to be alive (I never said I wasn't dramatic), yet disappointed to reach the end.

Not only had I hiked on my own, I'd traveled here alone and had many miles ahead. Old comfort zones waited to be shed.

Back in town I headed to the brewpub to dine on a buffalo burger and sip a pint of amber while watching the World Series at a table ... alone. Then, I slipped on my swimming suit and headed to the Hot Springs for a soak under the stars. As I returned to my hotel, my body heavy with relaxation yet light with bliss, I decided I would die happy even if I never made it to Europe.

Hiding out

2010-11-03T23:36:00.001-05:00

First, an apology. I spent the past week in my head.

You would think that while whipping up 3,000 trip miles on the Golf so far, I would be dialing every number in my phone or plopping down at my hotel room at night for a social networking and blogging extravaganza.

In fact, the opposite occurred. I retreated farther into my ever-churning brain and shunned my phone and my email/facebook/twitter/blogger accounts.

Withdrawing comes easily to me, but I always find myself coaxed back to the living for social nourishment. I guess when it comes to human interaction, I take the feast or famine route.

So, in the past week, as I drove through western Minnesota, across Nebraska, into Colorado, up to Wyoming, back across Nebraska, into Iowa, up to central Minnesota and down through Iowa and onward, I've been taking the opportunity to simply be alone in the moment.

I've listened to the thoughts in my head and the wind blowing outside. I've watched golden, sun-drenched plains turn to glistening snow-capped mountains, which melt into jagged, painted canyon walls. I've noticed that every day the sky blows me away with its beauty and that a lot of things are hauled across this country - fire hydrants, tires, horses, tanks, windmill blades, manufactured homes, truck toppers, army tanks and delivery trucks, to name a few.

When I first talked about planning this trip, I feared becoming a victim of the dreaded "highway hypnosis" we learned of in some scare-tactic-filled driver's ed video. With the exception of a single, horrible day without coffee, alertness prevailed - even my eight hour days. Solitude stimulates. Balancing disengagement with engagement seems to be the real challenge.

Side note: The fact that months ago someone jacked my antenna and my CD player broke two hours into this journey has made quieting my mind even easier. ::sigh:: It's okay. I had my tantrum. Now, I simply turn on my voice recorder to "write" while I drive.

East meets West

2010-10-27T21:55:00.001-05:00

Whenever I drive toward the West, my soul breaks wide open. I feel lighter, more creative and inspired beyond any inspiration I achieve elsewhere. It may be a manic state.

While I feel inclined to give credit to the open road, my traveling music (Bruce Springsteen, Tom Petty, Bob Seger and such) and the fact that I'm free as a bird, the truth is that no other destination takes me to this spiritual state.

Forgive me for getting too gooey, but it illuminates my essence. And, yes, that fundamental me wants to ride horses through the prairie, sleep under a starry sky, spend days on a deck simply writing (by hand) in the mountain air and enjoy weeks on end without touching a phone, computer or car. She swears like a cowpoke, drinks whiskey on the rocks and beer straight from the bottle, owns ruby red cowboy boots and delights in a bloody steak. All of that is true of me except for owning the boots, and maybe this trip can bring life to my dream.

So, even though I'm cutting through hurricane-style winds to cross Nebraska (with a broken CD player and no antennae for radio since someone ripped it off, mind you), I was feeling completely zen this morning. Until I passed a string of semi trucks.

Some guy in a late-90s sedan pulled out of nowhere to tailgate my ass at more than 80 miles per hour. I quickly pulled in between a pair of semis, allowed him to pass and made a poor decision: I looked over to scowl at him. He smiled back and slowed down enough to give me a distinctive single-finger wave. As this [insert your favorite profanity-laced insult] took off, I noticed his allegiance to a certain East Coast sports team and his license plates that revealed his state of origin.

Nothing gets me riled up like rude people. How could anyone have road rage on such a gorgeous morning? My mood edged to the dark side. Then, I remembered something I learned recently about finding gratitude for those who have wronged you. I talked myself off the cliff where I was about to dive into an ocean of angry. What could I possibly thank this dude for? I reluctantly settled on a lesson in being able to let things bounce, to acknowledge when my feelings are hurt and to move through anger without allowing it to consume me. Forgiveness. While I appreciated the opportunity to be introspective, this conclusion didn't sit perfectly well with me. It did not feel like the intended lesson.

A few hours later, while talking to Chris, I found the real reason to thank this pest: humor and compassion. Chris teased that perhaps he was late for a meeting. After all, I thought I had a long trip.

Yes, I dug deep and empathized with this man too tightly wound for the Wild West. He was so far removed from his element. No morning rush hour traffic. No busy streets and hurried people. He couldn't function without a daily display of hostility. I am happy I could help him feel at home.

Like a tumbling tumbleweed

2010-10-27T21:49:00.000-05:00

The past two days toggled between exhilarating and defeating. I left town to journey the 7,000+ miles that will take me to every place I lived as a child. While I should be thankful that no real issues have presented themselves, I must let out a gentle whine.

I left Minnesota with such ambition. I sit in my hotel room tonight positively drained from driving nearly 1,000 miles in two days. Unfortunately, significant distance stood between my birthplace - Mankato, Minn. - and my second destination. I muscled through wicked winds the entire way thinking I could simply stop and resume tomorrow, but desperately wanting to emerge from the Nebraska plains to find myself in lovelier places.

Apparently those winds sustained speeds of about 25 to 35 miles per hour. With each mile spent battling the gusts, my shoulders inched closer to my earlobes. My eyes darted up toward the moonroof to be sure my traveling companions remained atop my car. I toted along a mountain bike and a road bike since I'll be visiting some scenic, bike-friendly destinations. When my gas mileage dipped below 20 miles per gallon, I decided to cram them into my hatchback on top of one month's worth of gear. Much better.

I giggled with each tumbleweed that crossed my path - and there were hundreds. I said a little prayer of gratitude for my relatively easy day as I passed many highway workers out doing damage control. I enjoyed the shelter of many a semi truck for the seconds in passing.

As I sit here with a hot cup of tea, I appreciate the stillness and silence. May relentless wind be the worst this trip throws at me.

Sprawling roots

2010-10-25T13:17:00.000-05:00

The easiest way to throw me off is to ask where I grew up.

Where was I born? Easy. Where do I live now? Of course I can answer that one. But where I grew up is complicated and involves no fewer than 18 residences, 12 cities and 7 states by the time I turned 18.

Where is home? Even worse. Is it that the same as where I grew up? Is it the place I am now? My entire life consists of attempting to define that concept as it pertains to me.

Earlier this year, I reconnected with a childhood friend thanks to Facebook. More than 20 years had passed since we'd seen one another, and about 15 had passed since we'd written. We were neighbors for one year and 36 days, but somehow her family represents and enormous part of my childhood.

In May, my mother and I met with her mother and her while they were staying in Minnesota. Everything clicked. We laughed and talked for hours. Nothing felt awkward. No walls or pretenses stood between us. We visited them again at their hotel a few days later.

I left that second encounter feeling like I'd reclaimed a significant piece of myself. Driving back to the Twin Cities, I tried to identify this mixture of enthusiasm and contentment. Then it hit me: I'd been home.

Growing up across the country meant a childhood scattered across the prairies, mountains and farmland. I have never been able to physically stand in those places and watch memories pass by me like ghosts. Friends were made and left behind. New ones awaited. Everything was about beginnings and endings. Returning was never an option.

On May 16, 2010, on the entrance ramp to Hwy 52N, I realized I could go back. I could revisit every, single place and see what happened. That night I barely slept. This idea ignited me.

Tomorrow, I plan to embark on this journey into the shadows of my past. I will share some of it here in the days and weeks to come.

Farewell to a friend

2010-10-08T15:57:00.000-05:00

I never expected so many tears.

You might call me an amateur when it comes to loss. The last time I mourned someone close to me was 1996 when my grandmother died. This fact lingers over my shoulder, reminding me that at some point in time those I love will move on.

Yesterday we put my 10-year-old cat to sleep. She entered our lives five years ago while we were residing in Chicago. I had my sights on another cat, but the shelter reported that he was very ill and might not pull through. Instead, they hand selected Val for us. Her owner jumped ship to Europe, leaving his estranged girlfriend with a pair of cats. The girlfriend dropped them off at a cat rescue. When they arrived, Val reportedly went one way and her brother went the other. When we met her, she rested on a shelf away from the other cats. Her flat face and raccoon tail made her unusual. For the record, I adore the unusual.

We brought her home and loved her madly. She never hissed, snarled or clawed. She mostly slept and purred. Every now and then she'd chase our feet under the covers, but that was the extent of her friskiness. She allowed children to handle her. Even those who disliked cats were enamored with her sweet, friendly demeanor and adorable face.

Twice we nearly lost her. Once when she found a hole in the wall of our Minneapolis rental. Her signature snoring led us to her location. Chris nearly demolished the bathroom to free her. She fled at the sound of the drill. The second time, shortly after we moved into our house, she decided to exit via an open door. Born and raised in Chicago, she'd never tasted the great outdoors. Nearly 48 stressful hours later, I spotted her on our picnic table. I can only imagine her adventure.

Mostly Val spent her days napping and shadowing me. She saw me out the door when I left for work in the morning and greeted me when I returned. Anyone who ever used our bathroom knows her passion for faucet water. She stalked the bathroom door and intruded on anyone who entered. She visited with guests and relished the attention they lavished upon her rather than hiding out as so many felines do.

Yesterday, before she left us, Val enjoyed all of her favorite things: a nap on the couch with me, one last trip to the bathtub for a drink, and a few moments warming herself in the sun. Chris and I stroked her until her purring stopped and the warmth left her body.

My mother reminded me how lucky she was to have our love and comfort as she left this world, as opposed to her dying alone and us finding her. A dear friend told me she would be with me until she knew I was okay without her. I posted on Facebook and received an onslaught of condolences. These words mean so much.

It is so easy to underestimate the loss of a pet until you go through it. The pain astonishes me. Finding her ever-present hair and seeing her water dish both crush me and soothe the emptiness. Recently, someone mentioned fully experiencing feelings in order to move through them. So, I'm trying to embrace the grief. I'm allowing myself the ugliness of a sob instead of a suffocated cry. I'm letting the tremendous tears fall without wiping them away.

She was supposed to be my great "writer's cat" as I stayed home to embark on my new journey. Susceptible to depression and on an unprecedented streak of wellness, I am trying to balance grieving with healing. I countered the time alone with a group bike ride. I worked from the coffee shop when the house became too lonely.

Last night after grumbling about the situation's absolute shittiness, I bawled into my husband's arms with utmost remorse, "Did we give her enough love? Was the care we gave her really the best possible?" But the truth is, while the time was too short, we gave one another five wonderful years.

Asking for it

2010-09-29T10:43:00.001-05:00

Earlier this year I blogged about being direct and resolved "to fearlessly ask for what I want and need without hesitation" in 2010. I'd completely forgotten about this declaration; however, I did not turn my back on my promise.

Rereading the post for a completely unrelated reason, I just noticed those words and realized how strongly I've been living them lately - okay, I confess that I haven't exactly upheld the "fearlessly" and without hesitation" parts, but they haven't paralyzed me as in the past.

This resolution transformed my life.

Right now I will not divulge the many ways I've finally advocated on my own behalf, but I do want to share a single, pivotal moment.

On August 16, 2010, I walked into my boss' office after sweating it out the entire day. I asked her if they would consider granting me a part time schedule so I could pursue some personal writing projects. For weeks I'd played the scenario out in my head, and the real-life outcome blew away all imaginary outcomes. She warmly received my request and seemed whole-heartedly supportive when she said she would present it to HR and senior management. Three weeks later I had my answer. On September 16, I started working a part-time schedule.

So, here I am. I will revive and reinvent this blog as I follow my bliss.

Rarely does the world just walk over and hand you what you want. In one way or another, you must bravely ask for it.

Stay tuned.

Update! I decided that if you're going to go for it, you've got to really go for it. I took a gigantic leap and resigned from my job on Monday. The support at every turn has been encouraging. As of October 15, I'm going it alone. More updates to follow.

'Til success do us part

2010-03-19T15:47:00.003-05:00

The latest buzz about Sandra Bullock being victim of "the Oscar curse" fondly reminded me of an opinion piece I wrote in 2006 after Reese and Ryan split:

'Til success do us part
By Jenifer Fischer, Managing Editor
Columbia Chronicle, November 2006

First, the news that golden couple Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Philippe split broke on the heels of the demise of Whitney and Bobby’s “crackpot” marriage. The collapse of Britney and K-Fed’s doomed-from-the-get-go partnership instantaneously followed, creating an all-you–can-eat gossip buffet for those who find entertainment in the marital trials and tribulations of entertainers.

This latest crop of love gone awry may even demand the attention of those who don’t care about celebrity mating habits. It has, after all, once again dredged up a topic that has long been a media favorite: marriage and the successful woman.

Right now tabloids and mainstream newspaper columnists are having a heyday with the “Curse of the Best Actress Oscar.” Six female Oscar winners, six failed relationships,seven years. Has anyone kept track of Academy Award winning men and their romantic failures in the months that followed? Surely the numbers are equally staggering. Why the obsession with female winners?

Society loves to see its career gals dumped, heartbroken and alone, even in 2006. Why? It means that they aren’t perfect and can’t have it all. It means they can’t possibly keep a relationship—which is what every woman still wants, right, a man to please and have lots of babies with—if they’re too busy enjoying personal achievements.

Depicting this in film and highlighting pop culture examples sends a message to men that they’d better steer clear and to women that they’d better not try too hard if they want a love life.

Forbes’ Michael Noer incited fury in guys and gals alike by telling men not to marry career women in an Aug. 22 story. His reasons included backing from social scientists who say a powerful woman doth a rocky marriage make, and he wrote that, according to a study published in a research journal called Social Forces, such a woman would be happier if her husband were the primary breadwinner. Noer used studies to argue that women who earn more than their husbands tend to be unhappy and that, gasp, they keep a dirtier home.

Please.

To be fair, Noer did generalize later on, referring to published literature when saying that highly educated people have more extramarital sex and those who earn more than $30,000 per year are more likely to cheat. He used gender-neutral statistics but still warned men to avoid such women.

Women may want to avoid such men, also. Forbes later published Noer’s column as a point-counter-point featuring a rebuttal by Elizabeth Corcoran who points out, using 18 years of personal experience, that men and women can play nice in a marriage while keeping careers. Corcoran warns: “Don’t marry a lazy man.”

But who says every degree-clutching or Oscar-toting woman pines for a big fat diamond ring? Our culture demonizes those who don’t or assumes they just have to be lesbians. It’s a colossal double standard. Hollywood’s eternal bachelors, such as George Clooney, don’t receive that sort of scrutiny; he’s lovable and doesn’t care to be tied down, and though there’s prodding about when he’ll marry, it comes with a wink and a smile as if to say “you sly old dog.”

But consider Oprah Winfrey. The woman receives constant criticism and speculation for her unmarried status. Likewise, actresses bad-girl Angelina Jolie and under-the-radar Katie Holmes both received glowing adoration once they got shacked up and knocked up by A-List men. It’s also interesting that rumors have Ryan Philippe shagging a little-known actress a la Jude Law leaving Sienna Miller for the nanny. What’s with the insecurity, guys?

All of this could be dismissed as a ridiculous discussion. Everyone who wants to be in a blossoming career and a lasting relationship should balance them and put the effort it takes into both. Those who just want one or the other should be respected. The fact of the matter is both men and women are at times insecure in relationships. Both men and women become too engrossed in something other than their partner. We would like to think it’s that simple.

But it really is not. Our fascination with celebrity love lives and two-career relationships clearly reveals society is grappling with something deeper. By obsessing with famous folks we aren’t simply hoping to collect on that bet regarding the longevity of a starlet’s third marriage. By using statistics to prove a woman’s place is in the home or that men can’t handle a strong spouse, we aren’t simply trying to keep the other sex in its place. We are perhaps trying to understand our most essential needs: to feel accepted, loved, secure and happy. And despite the times, we still like to believe in the fairytale.

Joy in unexpected places

2010-03-03T22:43:00.001-06:00

If you pay attention, you quickly realize life gives you what you need.
Psst. Here's the lesser-known secret: it can even come from TV.

I must admit to feeling a bit distressed lately about some things too personal to share here (I do find that the things most worth writing about seem least appropriate for a public blog, which is why I must write fiction that I may smatter with truth.) Anyway, I've been around long enough now to realize that the further you follow your thoughts down despair's path, the more vividly the scenery reflects them. It's better not to get lost in your own head.

I never thought of Roger Ebert as more than a legendary movie critic. While watching him on Oprah (yes, I'll let you in on one of my most embarrassing secrets: I record Oprah every day because you just never know what you'll miss), I was profoundly touched by his spirit. His wife, Chaz, read this statement he wrote (it came from his journal post here:

"I believe that if, at the end of it all, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn't always know this, and I am happy that I lived long enough to find it out."

Then, on the 10'clock news I caught this story about the elderly couple who became a YouTube sensation with this video:

I'd seen the video weeks ago, but hearing about Frances and Marlow Cowan, the couple behind it, felt like someone taking me by the shoulders and shaking some sense into me. The story said: "Frances said they believe we are all on this earth to spread joy and to bless people."

Of course, I started thinking about my late grandmother who spread loads of joy in her day and refused to surround herself with complainers ... and cheaters for that matter. If we griped about parking too far away, she'd remind us to be thankful we had legs for walking. As a child, that answer made me furious; however, today it grounds me.

We can all benefit from practicing gratitude each day and asking ourselves if we are spreading joy to others and, as Ebert states, ourselves. On the days life seems thankless and joyless, we must force ourselves to look beyond our own self-defeating thoughts for evidence of the contrary. It's everywhere, even on TV.

On being direct

2010-01-31T10:35:00.000-06:00

Last week food poisoning brought a curse upon our home - food poisoning so awful it made my die-hard Green Bay Packers fan of a husband get down on his knees and bargain with God for a Brett Favre Super Bowl in exchange for his well-being. Too little, too late. The playoff game was indirectly responsible for our digestive-tract malaise. Even the cat joined in on the yak-fest thanks to enjoying the rarely gifted table scrap.

I think I'm practicing mental toughness for our potential Leadville Trail 100 race because I suffered through 3/4 of the work day before retreating for home and realizing my fever hit at least 101.5.

The real sickness - one far more long-term - revealed itself when someone rang our doorbell. Obviously we were home, and despite the fact that I we lay near-lifeless on the sofa, I just couldn't ignore someone at the door. They'd know! ::gasp:: Beyond my better judgement I walked out on the screen porch to find a woman standing in the cold with a clipboard, waiting to ask me to help motherless baby monkeys in South America or demand better soil for Minneapolis gardens or something along those lines. Usually I listen to these people, but before she could even state her purpose, I stopped her:

"You don't want to talk to me right now," I said weakly. "I've got the flu really bad."

I lied, not wanting to get into the food poisoning. Why did I even think I had to explain?

"That's okay," she responded, a little too upbeat. "I can talk to you through the door."

Huh? WTF? I just said I was sick. My skin felt hot for the first time in hours.

"Um. No. You don't understand. I'm really sick and I don't want to talk to you right now," I let my voice raise. "Good night."

I huffed into the house. Her nerve! Talk to me through the door? How thoughtful.

But I knew it was all in my delivery. Why had I phrased it the way I had? Why not just say, "Now is not a good time; please leave some info or come back another day"?

Or how about not answering the door at all?

I think I've become more assertive in recent years, but now I know I still have a lot of work to do. When I'm spending every 10 minutes in the bathroom, it's fine to put my needs first without excuse.

This is the same behavior that has screwed me over in job negotiations and other life decisions. It is a fairly sizable flaw. And so I have my 2010 resolution: to fearlessly ask for what I want and need without hesitation.

Childless

2010-01-30T16:48:00.000-06:00

Babies. At one point in time, the mere mention of me having any inspired the same response as if someone suggested I might one day move to Kansas. Classify under things that will never happen without an act of God.

It's strange to me - all of it, from the fact that people seem so obsessed with the procreation interests of women in their child-bearing years to the fact that I feel so completely detached from this natural part of life.

I've just never had the desire. In college it was kind of a joke that I wanted nothing to do with such matters. When we were dating, I told my now-husband that children were unlikely to be in the cards. Early in our marriage I thwarted outsiders' questions with "maybe someday, but not anytime soon." The inquiring party often responded something along the lines of, "well, you have plenty of time to change your mind."

I teased that my "clock" was on snooze. For a few years, I forgot about it all together. And lately, I am beginning to think my model came without the "clock." Now that I'm into my thirties, I realize my body won't wait forever. The window, while still open, is coming down. Perhaps in the years to come, we will join the ranks of parents everywhere. But my heart hints otherwise. I find myself working to accept that mine may be a childless life.

And while this is a decision my husband and I make together, I say I am working to "accept" it because I catch myself talking myself into it. You never know until you try it, right?

I worry about regret. I wonder about loneliness. I feel a pang of guilt for not giving my parents a grandchild or two. There are no real "reasons" for this choice. I like kids and my life is full of them. Fertility does not seem to be a problem on either side of the family (I come from a family of five, and Chris comes from a family of six). Mostly, I think I question our lifestyle because being a childless, married, heterosexual couple is not really a social norm.

The bulk of my same-age friends are beyond their firstborn and moving onto numbers two and even three. For my husband and I, it is a strange place socially. When we get together with friends, we can't relate to the parenting conversations or our single friends' experiences. Sure, there are a couple of newly marrieds without kids, but they are definitely sitting in the station, waiting to get on that train.

No one pressures us or comments on our childlessness. However, I sometimes feel shallow and selfish because instead of talking about our children's activities, we only have updates on our bike racing and home-improvement projects amongst other self-centered reports.

Perhaps that is where we turn the acceptance into balance. As we grow old and childless together, we must solidify the relationships with the children in our lives and invest in them, reach out to our community and not become too self-absorbed while appreciating and enjoying the life we choose as a childless couple.

New Year's Present, New Year's Past

2009-12-31T13:45:00.001-06:00

The year was 1999 ...
And the world anxiously waited the dawn of a not only a new decade, but also a new millennium. Some feared Y2K, while others (like myself) rolled our eyes and said life shall bring whatever it brings so preparedness is great, but handwringing is pointless.

I was 20 years old, on the cusp of 21. I lived in Chicago's Uptown neighborhood. I attended journalism school in the South Loop. I had a long-term boyfriend who loved concerts, Cubs games and exploring the Chicago streets for hours on end. My roommate was an amazing singer with gorgeous eyes, fascinating friends, a boyfriend I thought was bad news and two kittens that made me hate cats. My bank account was all but empty.

I worked two jobs. In one, I served as a waitress at The Artists Café on South Michigan. The place was glamorous in my eyes—owned by Greek sisters, most of the staff included twenty-somethings from all over the world; the diners were intriguing sorts who danced in the ballet, taught at the nearby universities and generally seemed to lived lives I envied as a young, broke student from Minnesota. In the other I ran the front desk at a health club in “Boys Town.” I rode my bike down North Halsted and over to Broadway at 5 a.m. each weekday—sometimes after arriving home from my waitressing job well after Midnight. Oftentimes I think I loved that job more than any I’ve had since. I chatted with the members who came in to workout before heading off to their jobs. They were well dressed and attractive. They asked me about school, shared their stories and gossiped about others in the gym. They showed me their published articles and told me about their dazzling careers. I wanted their glamorous, urban adult lives as soon as my sexy student-in-the-city life grew up.

I was giddy with anticipation nearly every day because I was out on my own and I knew my adult life was taking shape.

While I cannot recall much of what I thought as my then-boyfriend and I hunkered down alone in my family northern Minnesota cabin with some strawberry Boon’s Farm on New Year’s Eve 1999, I know with certainty it reflected my attitude toward Y2K and the potential end of the world as we knew it: I knew what I wanted; I prepared for the thrilling (and not so thrilling) possibilities and I believed predictions of any sort were pointless. My 10-year outlook was this: I envisioned myself not only as a member of the gym where I worked, but also as a diner in fabulous restaurants, a world traveler and an editor climbing the ladder at a magazine in Chicago. The guy and I would be crazy in love still and taking the town by storm. No kids, of course. I’d own my own condo and use public transit.

Closing the curtain on the 00s

Basically, none of those things has happened with the exception of the no kids and the restaurants—semi-fabulous ones, anyway. I cook gourmet meals when given the chance. I’m married to a man I met on a blind date and whose kindness, intelligence and carpentry skills amaze me. We own a house. I work in PR and marketing with a little freelance gig or two on the side. We live in Minneapolis. I drive a VW Golf. Forget the gym; I race bikes. I still have yet to set foot out of North America. Little did I know the next 10 years held a lot of heartache and a lot of unexpected joys as far as my love life, my schooling and my journalism career.

It seems that 10 years ago we looked forward with bright-eyed expectations of a new era (and, again, that whole Y2K fear). So much happened. Bubbles of all sorts burst. We entered into war. We got angry. We found hope. On New Year’s Eve 2009, as a nation, we look ahead and hope the next decade is better in light of the economy, health care and peace.

As I reflect on where I was physically and emotionally 10 years ago, I realize that I have not paused to consider where I will be in 10 more. It is weird, coming out on the other end of a decade that coincided with my twenties. While I am a chaser of dreams, I must admit that with so many of those monumental life experiences are out of the way, so much of it feels decided. Looking ahead is … different through my 30-year-old worldview.

I give thanks for where I am right now, especially in light of what so many others are experiencing. I look ahead to the possibilities while dismissing expectations. In the past 10 years I have established a deeper understanding of life and self, and if I hope for anything it is to continue on a path of growth—one lined with copious amounts of laughter and joy, plus a little mischief—and to rekindle a healthy dose of giddy anticipation so I may integrate back into my life. Most of all, I wish not to spend another decade waiting for the next big event, but rather to make things happen every day and enjoy the "now."

Christmas Present

2009-12-27T12:11:00.000-06:00

This year I some of the most thoughtful gifts I can recall receiving - ever. I dislike the notion of giving gifts because they are expected. Because of this philosophy I have avoided falling victim to holiday stress - well, from the shopping standpoint anyhow. It seems this year I more or less reached shopping nirvana. The ideas came quickly. I avoided any peak shopping days. And, I stayed within our limited budget.

Some sort of gift-giving karma was at work because in addition to an unsolicited subscription to Cook's Illustrated (a magazine I have always wanted but never discussed with anyone in my family) from my brother, Dayton Duncan and Ken Burns' book The National Parks from my mother (the book I was going to get her, but couldn't due to family rules - I'll explain in another post), and black pearls and bike-parts jewelry (I adore juxtapositions such as this) from my husband, my step-father gave me this beautiful piece:

As I lifted the cover from the small box it came in, I paused with absolute disbelief. I'd always imagined what it would be like to receive this sort of delicate, antique writing instrument.

The idea came to him without anyone's suggestion. He hunted down the perfect one because he thought I might make a writing space for myself one day and he wanted to help me decorate it. Amazing. If this isn't a sign that I need to realign my priorities and follow my passion more diligently, then I don't know what is.

What the dead cat taught me

2009-11-19T00:20:00.001-06:00

Tonight I left a local coffee shop and returned to my car only to find a beautiful calico cat. She was laying on her side, face upward, and pivoting as though rolling over. I thought to myself, sheesh, Chris was right; why did we shell out $100 for a cat when these things run wild? Within nanoseconds I realized this kitty was not asking me to rub its belly.

She was dead. I shrieked. Then I shrieked again. I'm not sure why this alarmed me, but I know for a fact that nothing was there when I left my car. I would have stepped right on her as I walked to the curb. Sven, my darling mini-lop, was the last lifeless domesticated animal I encountered, and that was more than a decade ago.

In my cold-hearted "urban" days, I used to turn and march onward from most everything that slowed me down or stepped in my way. I wanted to kick pigeons for crissake! Today I stopped in my tracks. What was I supposed to do? She wore no collar. I stared for a few minutes and realized I had to step into my car and drive away. Doing so bothered me immensely.

Since I left Chicago, my day-to-day activities have been void of such unpleasantries. At one time I was immune to rats, people defecating on public transit and other creepy crawlies that inspired terror in "out of towners." These days, the most vile experience my ordinary dealings hand me is the occasional car spider or a running shoe caked with dog poo.

Nearly three years have passed since I returned to Minneapolis. While on certain days I miss Chicago something painful and I struggle with decisions long since made, moments like these make me realize how balanced and "real" my life here is. And as the blood returns to my icy veins, it fills me with gratitude.

Inspirational time capsules

2009-11-04T18:53:00.000-06:00

I frequently stick fortune cookie fortunes away and find them years later when I least expect it, and I scribble quotes in notebooks and never compile them into a master document. When I stumble upon them, these presents to myself never fail to inspire me or make me smile. Tonight I opened and old notebook and found the following:

Your life is the sum total of many choices. -- Fortune cookie fortune

Anything with the power to make you laugh over 30 years later isn't a waste of time. I think something like that is very close to immortality. -- A quote from "Hearts in Atlantis" by Stephen King (one of my favorite books, by the way ... not scary, either)

Some days are like that

2009-11-04T18:47:00.000-06:00

Today took many strange twists and turns. While I do not think it appropriate to get into the details here, I must say that once again I was reminded of life's many layers.

Rushing to judgement rarely gets you anywhere but humbled. There are few words more beautiful than the word "compassion." And the bravery we muster in the face of adversity never fails to amaze me.

I have an acquaintance who inspires me with her zeal for life, and she once shared these words with me--I may be be a off on the first part, but you get the idea-:
"Be gentle with each other, for we are all fighting our own great battle."

It is so true. Some of us make those battles known to all, while others wage them silently behind closed doors. But we all have them, and the pain and triumph we experience is what ties us all together. It is only in those rare moments that we step out of our cars or away from our computers and look one another in the eyes and listen quietly that we recognize the human experience.

I saw a full bush on the way to the latrine and other Northwoods adventures

2009-08-28T18:12:00.000-05:00

Oh the things that come out of my mouth. I may just be the queen of saying things that sound dirty but are not intended as such.

I spoke of wild blueberries when that gem flew into the world, and now I claim it as the title to the book I'm outlining right now - or maybe a chapter of it. Yep. I have an official project. Even though I now ride my bike like it's a part-time job, I need to channel my leftover energy into another part-time job - all the book ideas floating around in my head need to find their way into daylight already. Our recent Boundary Waters trip really inspired me to put these "years in the making" projects in motion.

Five days without a cell phone, the news or a shower and nothing to worry about but paddling, finding a campsite and building a fire apparently spark creativity. (Or maybe it was the evil loons or the fact that when you are away from everything and have nothing else cluttering your brain, social boundaries change and BMs become a perfectly reasonable topic each day) I must admit, returning to normal life proved difficult (although I am quite happy to have my boundaries back, thank you very much). I wasn't prepared to feel, well, it was like that gloomy, disappointed feeling we know as post-Christmas letdown - and we are only talking five days in the wilderness, not five years or even a single month. Sheesh. I guess that Thoreau guy knew what he was doing.

Since I haven't posted in forever, here are a few shots from the BWCA trip. This weekend, I shall work on sharing more pictures and stories.

How this year's Tour may have ruined my life

2009-08-02T09:18:00.000-05:00

Thanks to a red-hot desire to watch this year's Tour de France, Chris and I broke our six-year "poor-people TV" streak. (Well, that and we realized with the switch from analog to digital, our VCR was rendered useless for recording our Thursday night shows. Plus, who can take anyone with a nice digital TV and a VCR seriously?) How did we ever survive this many years of marriage without quality nights sitting silently in front of cable TV together?

On July 10, the Dish Network and the little miracle that is DVR - you can pause LIVE TV!?! - entered our lives. At first, it was bliss. I could record the Tour, attempt to avoid the Twitter updates and such all day, and then watch the Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen coverage at my own convenience. Blipping through the commercials was blissful. And then the Tour ended.

I started to feel uneasy about this fancy TV arrangement. My Netflix subscription satisfies my movie and series needs. I do just fine with NBC, CBS, ABC and PBS. If I'm plunking down that much cash each month, shouldn't I be watching TV like it's my job instead of riding, reading or gardening?

Well, after exploring some cable's stellar offerings, I may need to dedicate more time to wasting my life away and growing some love handles. I keep up with pop culture; however, I never watched the shows people talk about 'round the water cooler. No more shall I wonder who the hell are John and Kate. Next time I pick up someone's copy of US Weekly and lose myself in its glorious trashiness, the experience will be far more fulfilling. So long hobbies and fitness and fresh air!

Here are three show that have "touched" my life thanks to Dish Network:

1. Keeping Up With The Kardashians
I always wondered who these people were and why I wanted watch a show about them. Based on the 15 minutes I watched, I think Olympian Bruce Jenner and his clan may be the most lovable reality TV show family out there. Kim seems sweet. The kids seem decent. And plastic, faced Bruce has his heart in the right place.

2. My Super Sweet Sixteen
Like a bloody wreck, these bratty teens draw you in. The attitude. The excess. The enabling parents and kiss-ass "friends." Wow. Just wow. Why doesn't someone bitch slap one of these little assholes into reality or make them work at McDonald's for a week and see that making heads roll because mom and day bought you a blue Porsche instead of a black Porsche makes you certifiably insane.

3. I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant
Woah. Hold on here. This should be on the Sci-Fi channel. This can actually happen to women who aren't obese or on crack? Fit, athletic women can actually carry a child full-term and find out they are pregnant just hours before delivering? My night terrors will not subside. I wake up in a cold sweat, clutching my empty womb. Dear God! Next time I have gas pains I'm taking a pregnancy test.

The Velo Chronicles, volume 4: closure ... kind of

2009-06-03T20:32:00.002-05:00

My last day at of class smacked me with the reality that I would not set foot on the track again unless I kept it up on my own — and so commenced my quest for a track bike. But first things first …

Our lesson plan included a progressive pace line, flying 200s from a standing start, rolling starts and some other mock races. I worried about keeping up with the men, but then decided worrying is no fun and that focusing on beating some of them was way more energizing.

The first race was a “miss and out,” in which the last person across the line every two laps is ejected from the race until there are two riders left. I managed to stay in the game after the first sprint. Then, I kept it up for the second sprint, and much to my sheer delight that meant I remained in the race longer than Chris. The third sprint sent me packing, but only by inches; if I hadn’t been so conservative I could have held on for one more sprint. Sigh.

The most hilarious moment of the night involved holding another rider’s bike for the standing starts. Standing starts take some muscling. You must go from zero to fast enough to make it around the first bank. I managed to stay upright upon release and into the corner. But then I had to hold another rider.

Four-foot-eleven-inch Jen gets paired up with the tallest dude in the class. (And really, for stability I have to wedge my foot in front of his back wheel with only a sock between the two?) Eventually you inch yourself from holding the bike lengthwise to holding it from the back by clasping the bar underneath the seat with a few fingers ... and then you must let go at the moment the rider is ready to pedal the heck out of there. As my late grandmother would say, “jeepers cats.” I envisioned my fingers being caught on the seat as he took off with me dangling behind until we ended up in a bloody, splintered pile on the ground. Everyone had a good laugh watching the freakish pairing, but we made it through without any crash and burn. Sweet. The shortness thing constantly amuses.

Anyone who has seen a track race knows how they usually start: at the top of the bank holding onto the rail in a single-file line and then rolling out (and down) in no particular order. I think it looks freaky. It is. I strategically placed myself at the back. My hand stuck to the bar. My pedals wanted to move, but my hand wouldn’t let go. I couldn’t help but look down at my wheel’s precarious angle rather than focus on the track ahead where I wanted that wheel to go. Mere seconds passed, but it felt like five minutes before I released my death grip and sailed down the track. I wanted to scream “wheeee.”

By the end of the night my quads burned, and let’s be real here, so did my crotch. Riding in such an aggressive position on such an unforgiving seat nearly brings tears to the eyes after awhile. But my spirit soared. Riding the track gives me a runner’s high on steroids. I barely slept and woke up as filled with adrenaline as the night before.

And that concludes our track class adventures. Stay tuned, though. I have another project cooking for those of you who enjoy the bike reads.

Chris on a bike on a track

2009-06-03T20:31:00.002-05:00

The Velo Chronicles, volume 3: rockin the boat, er, bike

2009-06-03T20:27:00.003-05:00

Bumping and standing. Week three brought two concepts that sent me into a cold sweat. No one said this would be a contact sport. Apparently that is true, but … you just need to be prepared for the strong likelihood that someone may, at some point, nudge you. Better to experience that in a non-race environment first. Surprisingly, there were no wipeouts. No near wipeouts, even. To prevent fodder for lifelong harassment, Chris and I partnered with other people for the bumping drill. Good call.

Standing while sprinting for an entire lap proved impossible. Looks like some quad strengthening is in order. (The next weekend I forced myself to charge up hill after hill while standing up out of my saddle.)

I have to say that the track has vastly improved my skills on the road, too. I’m more in tune with my form and the efficiency of my pedal strokes. My group riding skills are better. I keep my line and remember to check my shoulder before passing or making sudden movements. I feel more confident and comfortable on my bike. I take corners tighter, draft closer, charge up hills with more gusto and panic a lot less under sticky circumstances. And, the improved speed never hurt.

The Velo Chronicles, volume 2: gaining momentum

2009-05-13T22:33:00.004-05:00

Remember falling in love for the first time? Hoping that special someone will call, anticipating your next opportunity to see him or her, daydreaming about what that encounter will be like ...

While I don't expect a phone call from a track bike anytime soon, I feel something like lust and the start of a deep and meaningful relationship. My fingers keep typing track cycling terms into "the Google," which feels like the modern-day equivalent of scribbling "I heart [insert your dreamboat's name]" on a notebook.

Anxiety consumed me all day Tuesday. As track time neared, my need to urinate increased to an impossible frequency. And that's when I know something's really "got me good"; my bladder goes rogue.

Once I'd gone to the shed to claim my trusty "13 blue," I practically skipped into centerfield to prep her for the night's ride. The sleek racer guys already zipping about failed to intimidate me as I approached the track. I felt safe?

Despite the 40+ mph winds that night, I relished every second speeding around the track. (Sort of like holding your date's hair while she ralphs, but feeling happy just to be in her presence anyway.)

Okay. I admit the first few laps shook me a little. Heading into the first banked turn while fighting the air just to stay upright unnerved me, but my confidence swiftly rebounded.

We split into groups and followed the leader up and down the track, getting to know every inch of her body. Then it came time to do what I'd dreaded, hiking to the top and swooping down to the bottom (think of an owl diving down to nab its prey). As I charged upward I came off the saddle--then realized I was off the saddle. Rather than panic I kept moving, performed my shoulder check and went sailing down. I forgot to say "whee." But I screamed it from the inside.

Keeping up with the boys proved possible. I passed. I sprinted to catch the pack. I finally stopped viewing myself as a quivering coward. Our instructor informed us that he'd had some "sketchier groups" and applauded our performance.

After a crash-free lesson in drafting and just before we began our first pace lines, the rain clouds came rolling in. The night concluded prematurely, leaving me unsatisfied and longing for our next encounter.

The Velo Chronicles, volume 1: fear, transcendence

2009-05-09T09:23:00.006-05:00

Tuesday night marked a new chapter in my life. For the past two years, Chris and I have trekked to the National Sports Center in Blaine to watch Thursday track cycling races at the Velodrome. It may be my favorite part of summer. Every time I watch, I wonder if I would enjoy the sport.

Through the last decade, age and a broken limb significantly depleted my thrill-seeking reserves; however, I hate living life with "what ifs" lingering in my mind. So enrolled in a course ... and made Chris come along.

Those unfamiliar with track cycling may envision a track and field track and think, "What's the big deal?" What if that track had 43-degree banks and the bike had no brakes and a fixed gear... and you were expected to travel around this banked oval ... and 20 mph was considered taking it slow? Are you getting my point now!?

Day 1
After listening to the history and safety lecture, I transferred my road pedals to the track cycle, a 47-inch, powder blue fixie whose rental number was lucky 13. I hopped on, clipped in and started traveling the flat, asphalt warm-up track. I caught myself attempting to brake on the first corner and realized that letting up on the pedals was only going to send me to the ground. I prayed the ominous clouds rolling in would let loose and make it all go away. No such luck. A sprinkle here and there meant everything was dry enough. We headed to the track.

I couldn't sign up for the all-women class thanks to scheduling conflicts. So, guess what? I get to be the lone chick in the class. This made me feel like one bad-ass woman and like a complete liability. I tried not to cling to Chris. After all, this was MY idea, and I hated to look like the sort of person who did this because her husband was into it.

One by one the men entered the track. A few of them tried to coax me on, but my legs stayed planted to the grass. How the hell would I get out of this bad dream? I decided my curiosity had been sated. As I watched Chris step onto the danger zone, I mouthed, "I'm not doing this. I quit." I felt like an idiot, but there was no way I felt comfortable enough on the bike to take it on the track.

The instructor's assistant told me he'd take a few laps with me. I set my bike on the apron, clipped in a pedal as men whizzed by above me (yes, I mean above), and started forward--immediately faced with the first corner. All I could see was the cote d'azur (aka, the apron) and the wood slats. After a couple of laps, we actually got on the track at the black line. My throat felt like the desert. My heart felt like I'd drank my weight in espresso. What about this did I think I would enjoy? I paid these people to bring me careening to my death? Quite possibly my stupidest decision in 30 years of life.

"Okay, now I want you to go to the red line after we turn the corner," my sidekick instructed.

Shit. I hopped higher onto the track. Heading into the corner I felt my tires slip. I counter-balanced and picked up the speed. Was it avoiding negative thoughts that would land me on the track with splinters throughout my body, or was I sort of enjoying this?

After a few laps above the red, my buddy made me hop up to the blue line. The ground seemed so far below. How was it that my tires were still on the track ... and moving? Gravity started to take its course at the embankment; I had one option: Pedal like hell.

And that's the moment I knew. The faster I went the more exhilarated I felt. I heard only the whirring of tires on wood and saw nothing but swooshes of color. I picked up speed. Strangely enough, I felt relaxed as I continued my laps. It seemed impossible.

By some miracle, I managed to exit the track in one piece despite the lack of instruction for this critical step in the equation. Later I rode in a pace line with the dudes, some of whom I was actually faster. Some of them must have been equally scared, but none would have dared to cower track side. Sometimes stereotypes can be a relief. I decided to return for the second class.

A rush beyond all rushes coursed through me for the next 24 hours. I think I'm in love. Chris says he'll complete the class, but says it was "one of the scarier things he's ever done on a bike" and has no desire to take it to the next level. I agree with his first statement, but ...

If I manage to be halfway decent at this, I fully expect to participate in those Thursday night races while my hubby cheers me on.

One gear. No brakes.

2009-05-03T15:20:00.004-05:00

Coming soon: a new adventure to blog--my foray into track cycling begins on Tuesday. I coaxed Chris into taking a four-week class at the National Sport Center's velodrome because, apparently, breaking my leg on the mountain bike again would be so dull. Stay tuned!

Speed bump

2009-03-03T18:53:00.005-06:00

Just one block down from my house resides an enclave of families who campaign vehemently against cars that speed down our street. Now. I agree with their concern. I, too, frown upon cars racing down our narrow urban street as though it were the interstate. However, I fail to share their view of every car, traveling at any speed, as a ruthless child killer - and anyone behind the wheel of such a monster as a wanna-be NASCAR driver.

Once the weather warms, these families place their little plastic "crossing guard" men with caution flags out on the curb. They plant their yard signs proclaiming things like "Slow down! We live here." These benign reminders, while slightly obnoxious in volume, don't bother me. What bothers me? The self-righteousness these knuckleheads have passed down to their offspring.

These little shits live to torment drivers. They stick their tongues out as cars inch slowly by. They throw snowballs. They dart out without looking both ways, then turn to see your reaction. (I give them my best catatonic stare.) The fact that my car, which I park on the street, can be seen from their homes, is the only thing holding me back from flipping the little bastards the bird every time I drive by. In the final feet of my commute, I look forward to seeing a) if the little terrorists are outside and b) what they - or their darling parents - might do that day.

For most of the winter, they've been dormant. But tonight's "event" refueled my annoyance. Spring has nearly sprung, so I suppose this was like our "season opener." Here's how it all went down.

It's about 4:55 pm, and I turn onto our street to find hipster dad and his 4- or 5-year-old son standing on the road next to their retro truck. Dad digs around behind the seat while son stands right in the path of traffic. Now, had I been the dad, I would have escorted my little one curbside while I finished unloading the car or looking for coins or whatever he was doing. But no. Dad sees me approaching and stares me down as he ever-so-slowly shuts the door - no smile or neighborly wave, only suspicion and loathing. (Next time I must remember to give him a wide, goofy grin and overly enthusiastic wave.)

At this point I'm traveling well under 10 MPH and slowing to stop because I think they may be ready to cross the street. Wrong again. It unfolds like a scene in a gunslinger movie - a horrifically anticlimactic one. Dad keeps staring and shooting imaginary death rays at my car as he and son inch to the curb like a pair of turtles. He cranks his neck as I pass, his watchful eyes following my car as though it were a tiger about to jump the curb and rip his precious child to shreds. I stare back to let him know that his passive-aggressive behavior isn't lost on me. I take deep cleansing breaths and resist the incredibly painful urge to hit the gas and go flying down the street. But alas. That wouldn't be neighborly now, would it?

When it comes to the end, let go.*

2009-03-01T10:03:00.004-06:00

Knowing when to quit may be life's greatest challenge. At least for me it is. We pour our hearts, time, energy, money and other resources into people, careers, goals and dreams without the promise of a return on our "investment." The more you commit, the harder it is to know when to walk away. Even when everyone else can see it is time ... even when you can see it is time.

We can easily fool ourselves into thinking that if only we loved someone more or changed some things about ourselves or the situation, then everything will turn out fine. But how long do you play the game? When are you better off with the inevitable heartache of walking away?

After nearly two months of dog ownership, Chris and I reached that point. We adopted a dog who had been abandoned. We didn't know his past, his age or his breeding. We house trained him and taught him basic commands, and we watched his nipping and jumping progress into snapping, growling, biting and lunging ... at us.

We tried what felt like a million things and considered putting possibly thousands of dollars more into fencing, one-on-one training, dog daycare, etc. Finally, we started to think maybe we were the problem. Maybe we weren't right for him. Then again, if we just kept trying ...

Things spiraled downward to the point he became aggressive with my 7-year-old cousin and continuously snapped at my face. We knew he had to find a new home where he would be happier. Never did I think HE had the problem. He seemed too sweet and adorable to be truly dangerous.

But the trainer at the rescue facility thought otherwise. She was amazed that we tried for so long.

Sadly, our little doggie was "unhinged" somehow. His aggressive behavior was far from normal. And we were told he needed to be put down before he seriously hurt someone. I can't remember the last time I bawled so hard. We seriously considered taking him home and continuing to try despite the risk. But in the end, we surrendered. It's one thing that he tries to eat our cat. It's another when he attacks us.

Perhaps it was the most humane thing to do, or perhaps it was completely wrong. Everyone will have an opinion. All I know is that I have to work through the conflicting sense of guilt and relief. We have know way of knowing what the first part of this dog's life was like. We tried to give him a good home. Now we have to find compassion for ourselves.

We have to let go, knowing that we tried our best and that some things are beyond our control.

* This quote came from The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, "When it comes to the end, you have to let go."

I wanna be thirty, flirty and thriving

2009-02-16T11:39:00.013-06:00

In my late teens and early twenties, I felt like the question "where do you picture yourself in (insert number ) years?" constantly popped up on some application or ice-breaker or whatever. I can't even recall what the answer may have been. I do, however, remember thinking to myself, gee, I wonder if in (insert number) of years I'll remember what I wrote down! I know without doubt my answers involved writing. Certainly travel. Possibly marriage. That's it. That's all.

Now that a number of years have passed without hearing that question, and with the launching of another decade in my life, I find myself a little surprised by where I am (insert number ) of years later. Finally, it has dawned on me that while I had an idea in mind, I never truly had a plan. Maybe it was because I was so focused on finishing journalism school already or dealing with the depression that loved to visit me every-other-year, but I never visualized my future beyond a single thing: writing. Becoming a professional writer was the only thing I knew I absolutely needed to get from life.

I don't know what else I imagined, but this life I live now was never it. I never pictured myself anywhere but in an apartment with some random for a roommate. I never imagined not working two or three jobs and struggling to get by. I never envisioned that I'd marry someone I didn't go to high school with ... and now that I think about that it's so bizarre and unlike me to have ever thought that in the first place. I hated those vile creatures we call cats, so having one was out of the question. And the list of things I never dreamed of goes on and on: owning a reliable car, liking coffee, waking up at 6 am on the weekend, growing my hair long, gaining 25 pounds and then actually enlisting in Weight Watchers to lose them, finding out that yoga is far from boring, watching dog training DVDs with a glass of wine on a Friday night ... you get the picture.

And not that my life is so phenomenal now or was ever some great tragedy. That isn't the point. The point is that I am pleasantly surprised to find myself where I am today. The point is that after trying find my feet for so many years, then figuring out how to walk on them, I feel thankful for where I am now. (Remind me of that on days I fret that I've become boring and start craving a good does of instability.) I fully embrace that great Stones' chorus "you can't always get what you want ... but if you try sometime, you just might find you get what you need."

In the last year of my twenties, I learned a lot about myself. I know it sounds trite, but I honestly felt the shift. First of all, I tried to run the marathon that topped my list of things to do before I die. Guess what? Not. Interested. Mark it as incomplete - gasp! I used to worry too much about whether or not people liked me, and now I find myself more concerned with whether I am kind, reliable, impeccable with my word and a good friend. The overwhelming urge to compete with everyone has dissipated, well, other than when I'm on my bike. I suddenly quit worrying so much about what I wanted to do with my life and just started embracing the possibility - and doors are opening in unexpected places. I stopped being willing to accept just anything from life and started valuing myself enough to take what feels true to who I am. Where to put my limited time and energy has become more clear.

Oh sure, then there are the ugly things - fine wrinkles, poor night vision and unwanted hair - that "suddenly appeared" just like the unexpected contentedness.

On again.

2009-02-11T16:49:00.004-06:00

I'm dusting off the old blog. I started reading my old posts (the really old ones in particular) and thought what the heck. Few people knew I had even written a blog, but now that I've posted the link on Facebook I suppose the cat's out of the bag. I need to stop being so shy about what I write.

Hopefully this blog is not too terribly self-indulgent. Nevertheless, it's my place to tell some stories. I can't believe four years have passed since I signed up for this little venture. Wow.

Against the Wind

2008-07-16T20:04:00.006-05:00

"I was living to run and running to live."
Against the Wind, Bob Seeger

Back in May, during a moment of temporary insanity and a misguided attempt to "do something for myself" amid familial chaos, I signed up for the Twin Cities Marathon.

Since I started running at the tender age of 15, I wanted to one day run a marathon. My grandmother and aunts had run them. I lived and breathed to run. It became an enormous part of my high school identity.

That fateful day in May, I thought to myself, "What the hell? I'm turning 30 next year, and it's the perfect major accomplishment to round out my twenties." Besides, I figured that endurance is something I've always had, both as a runner and a human being. I've had plenty of practice.

But now. Well, now it seems suffering by choice seems totally unnecessary. I try to make choices that prevent it. And now, though it pains me to say it, I don't really like running much at all. Most days I loathe it.

I've come around to realizing I don't much enjoy pain of the physical or mental variety ... I don't care if working through it builds character. Pain is not a challenge to be conquered. It's something to be avoided.

And the hedonistic pleasure running gave me? I've found several glorious replacements: alcohol, sex, weekends away with girlfriends ... and biking. I lace up my running shoes furious because they take me away from time spent on my bikes.

Perhaps I'll run the damn marathon. Perhaps I'll throw in the towel.

Either way, I can't get that Bob Seeger song out of my head lately. [Note: Seeger reportedly wrote the song from his days as a high school cross country runner!] I've always loved it , but now I'm dissecting it in my head along with my current situation, ruminating on what this particular struggle means. Hey, why not turn this into a philosophical thing?

That song gives me chills. We push and resist and endure. We get a little lost in our carefree drifting. Then, one day we start to get wise and strong, a little more cautious and far more responsible. Holding on to just enough of both seems like the sweet spot. Now to strike that balance and let go of that which no longer applies, but that is another post altogether.

Grief

2008-05-30T22:49:00.009-05:00

I kept the door shut for two months. It took that long before I could stomach what sat behind it. The smell of her perfume. The memory of finding her there--weak and wasted on some twisted mission to do herself in--the last morning she stayed in our home. The room became invisible. I just pulled the door shut and never looked back.

Until last weekend. I propped open the door. I threw her quilt over the bed. I pulled the shades up to let in the sunshine. I even opened the windows, taking up the storms so the screens would usher in fresh, spring air to replace the oppressive fog of lingering pain. I shoved the signs of her disease into drawers, tossed out the trash, brought in the boxes to pack away her few, pathetic belongings and pretended nothing phased me.

But it did. It consumed. It filled me silmultaneously with unbridled rage and debilitating sorrow ...

Just like the can of chicken soup--the one I bought for her when she couldn't keep real food down--sitting in my cupboard.

Just like the sound of an ambulance in the distance.

Just like the word vodka or sister or alcoholism.

Just like the lies upon lies I desperately believed to be truths.

Just like the memory of hugging her as we parted ways from a rare, but precious after-work dinner date--before she became a stranger, a ghost.

Just like the realization that I more or less lost my sister. I pray with all my heart that she returns. I miss her.

Grins, squirrels and gasoline

2007-09-08T11:39:00.000-05:00

Several days ago my car crawled down I-94. Westbound, off like a heard of turtles, the wage slaves of the Twin Cities found themselves yet again slogging down the interstate toward home. Some of us questioned what it was all for, deciding that when we grew a pair we'd tell our bosses where to go and buy log cabins in the Rocky Mountains and live off the land. Some of us decided this daily slow down provided blissful time alone to engage in self-dialogue or safely perform our daily rock star fantasy without embarrassing ourselves or offending our loved ones. We accelerated and braked in our individual highway habitats, in the world while simultaneously cutoff from it.

I watched my fellow citizens of humanity across the cement barrier as they headed eastward at an impossibly slower rate of speed. A twenty-something guy dressed business casual--my male doppelganger?--creeped by in a red VW Cabrio. In a rare moment of highway interaction not involving bumper-to-bumper contact or offensive hand gestures, our tired eyes met across the median. We exchanged smiles. I opened the sunroof and turned the classic rock station up a little louder.

As I shifted my Golf back down into second gear, I noticed a dead squirrel on the shoulder. Next to this still-fluffy, gore-free roadkill rested a red, plastic gasoline container. Far from trees or grass or houses. Right in what may be the ugliest, most cement-covered part of the city. I laughed out loud.

You can't make this shit up. Doubtful the two items had any relationship. But a twisted mind can dream right? And even though my normally 30-minute commute took an hour that day, I couldn't have cared less. I lost myself in Bob Seeger and theorizing how one adventurous squirrel ended up meeting his maker in a scenario that may or may not have involved a frustrated motorist whose car ran out of gas. I wanted desperately to talk to someone who knew.

Keep your eyes open. There's a lot of wonderful, weird stuff out there in the world, from fleeting moments of much-needed human interaction to perplexing sights that posses all the makings of a good story.

Going forward in reverse.

2007-08-17T08:52:00.000-05:00

Sitting around like an elderly shut in this week, as my dear friend Eric so eloquently puts it, inspired me to think like one in a way. In addition to watching squirrels scamper through my yard and birds nibble at the feeder while anticipating the moment my neighbor would stop by to check in on me with items I'd requested from the store, I spent the past few days examining my life. Mostly, scrutinizing my career as a writer. What would I do differently if I had it to do all over again? I would take on something creative and thrilling and definitely not what I'm doing now.

Unlike the elderly shut in, I have a leg up (pun absolutely intended) on time; I can derail this train and blaze down another track. Yet this train feels paralyzed by subliminal self-doubt and palpable fear.

Awhile back things started heating up. I started to nuzzle my way into Chicago's journalism scene. We're not talking features in The Reader or anything, but I published multiple times in three publications that weren't my school paper. I felt it a commendable start.

Back to square one folks. I need to tap into Minneapolis-St. Paul media opportunities. I took the first job offered to me out of school. I'm making the cash, stashing some change away into my 401K and taking advantage of stellar health insurance. But my ambitions never emphasized those things. A "safe" career never meshed with my life philosophy, otherwise I would have become an accountant.

Obviously, there is time to change course. I graduated less than a year ago. I just need a catalyst. My procrastinating nature must be destroyed. I'm on deadline and need to kick it into high gear.

I'm leading a one-woman revolution against myself. I must write that book. I shall dig out every last brilliant story idea scribbled in my Moleskin the past six months and start working. No longer will a mourn the loss of the CTA and city sidewalk encounters that once fueled my creativity. I have to seek them elsewhere. I will set foot into the world and meet some folks from the MSP publishing kingdom.

This is my manifesto. These are the words of a crazy woman awakened. You're just witnessing it in text instead of gawking at her as she rants on the street corner. I need you, friends and loved ones whom I adore, to channel those positive thoughts this mad writer woman's way. Light a fire under my arse, as the people say.

Zit me baby one more time!

2007-08-15T09:59:00.001-05:00

My 10-year high school reunion--the one I've playfully dreaded for at least 11 years--nears at T-minus three days, seven hours, 54 minutes. Not only do I have three bloody, bandaged "bullet holes" in my right knee thanks to the arthroscopy, my face graciously developed two unsightly zits. One of them planted itself on the left side of my nose near the corner of my left eye. No one will notice that literal eyesore. Ugh.

But wait! Who the hell cares?

As of this week, I finally dropped about 15 of the 20+ pounds of the post-wedding figure neglect/Chicago-era depression weight. NOT for the reunion. For me. I burned that fat gone after several failed attempts in years past and despite the whole leg/knee injury putting my new exercise routine on sabatical. I now embrace healthy eating like a red hot lover.

I feel amazing. Zits be damned. I purchased some fabulous Origins concealer earlier this summer; problem solved. Nothing can fake the glow feeling good eminates!

Things that suck well.

2007-08-14T20:29:00.000-05:00

Throughout life, there are milestones that signify one has reached a certain level of status or maturity. You turn 16 and get a driver's license. You turn 21 and can legally drink. After that the age portion blurs a bit, but it typically goes: college degree, job, wedding bells, mortgage, kids, etc. Some of these milestones are achieved through default; some are earned; some develop over time and some just slap you in the face.

Over the weekend I arrived at a combination developed over time/slap-you-in-the-face milestone. It went something like this:

Recently, my sweet husband has been doing most of the vacuuming due to my broken leg and messed up knee. He's noticed that the "cute," economical vacuum we purchased at Target early in our relationship was not built for the long haul. No great surprise considering the minor sum of money it cost.

Four years ago we only knew and cared about one thing in relation to this purchase: We needed an appliance that would clean floors through a suction mechanism.

So the scrappy little vac we call our first is now an inadequate. Perhaps it simply lost steam in its "old age." I suspect we've become more finicky in ours. We now need a vacuum capable of meeting our more mature standards of cleanliness. It has become essential to consider things like floor surface type, animal hair and dust allergies. Don't even get me started on suction, noise, filters, bags and attachments that conveniently travel from one room to the next. A lot of thought and effort would have to go into purchasing this replacement vac.

The major snag in this realization? How do you learn about vacuum cleaners? People our age don't discuss these things at social gatherings. I'm a young, urban career woman without kids. My husband it a fascinating breed of metrosexual/manly man. Vacuum cleaners don't make a blip on our radar.

(Anyone who knows me or has lived with me should refrain from commenting about my standards when it comes to dwelling-related cleanliness and just refer back to the young, urban career woman line.)

Now we're surfing the Web and asking our older, wiser friends about their own vacuum cleaner preferences. Inevitably we'll head down to a local shop that sells vacuum cleaners exclusively and get the spiel ... time has come to move past that period in life where we stroll down the aisle of our favorite, super-convenient, big-box store and pick a cheap, decent looking [insert essential nesting item that one hates to spend excess money on].

From here on out the focus is on high-quality merchandise that makes sense economically. We've reached that milestone, you know, the one where you consider a lawnmower, refrigerator, washing machine, dryer, vacuum cleaner or any other major purchase that would depress the hell out of your former self--who would rather drop the cash on a new wardrobe and a few rowdy nights out--an investment.

Our search for a vacuum cleaner that sucks well hath commenced. Suggestions welcome!

First Avenue, revisited.

2007-08-06T19:55:00.001-05:00

Late in July I set foot inside a place I'd missed like you might miss your childhood dog: You long for the joy it brought you; you long to re-live the fun memories you keep, but you doubt things could be the same if she were with you again, afterall, you've grown up so much. Going back is never the same.

In this case, I wondered how I could have stayed away for so long. And as it happens in many of my relationships, my initial instinct was to apologize for being so distant and aloof. How could I neglect something so wonderful that has enriched my life and been part of my developement into the person I am today?

I'm talking about that beautiful shrine to music standing on the corner of 1st Ave. N. and N. 7th St.: First Avenue.

This time I missed out on the hour-long drive up from Red Wing with a carload of friends, our mothers worried sick about firey car crashes and muggings, as cell phones were far from commonplace. There was no singing along to every hit by the artist to be seen that night. There was no stoping in Hastings to buy OK soda [Remember THAT stuff??? "Things are going to be OK"] to drink by the case while enjoying the array of witty can designs. Even then, I was a sucker for the words on them more so than the sugary soda within. There was no stoping in St. Paul for a pre-show dinner at Cossetta's Italian Market before standing on the sidewalk against the star-studded walls of that iconic beauty, anticipating the show and having obnoxious conversations or playing the "penis game." Oh, to be 15 again...

As we left our apartment in Minneapolis, there was deliberation over dining out. We did. It was Italian. There was little sillyness involved. I listened to my voice mail as we drove down Lyndale Ave. and learned that my great-grandmother had passed away. That made for a conversation killer. There was no pre-concert listening of the artist to be seen. I did, however, demand that we get there ridiculously early to ensure the seating of my choice. This time, it was 18-and-up, not all-ages. This time, I wasn't hoping for the spot immediately in front of the stage. I was hoping to scramble to the upstairs bar to ensure we landed ourselves a decent table since my leg was broken.

As Chris dropped me off with crutches in tow before he parked the car, I approached the cement relic of my adolesence with something like awe. I hate to be cliche, but it was almost spiritual. I touched the black-and-white paint that has stood the test of time, tracing the outlines of the stars bearing names of musicians both of everlasting fame and now obscure. I slid down to sit on the dingy, soiled sidewalk. Resting my back against this aging--but still completely with-it--hipster, I even felt fondness toward the ancient gum now trampled deep into the sidewalk I sat on.

Like it always had, time passed swiftly. The line of music-loving folks spanning generations snaked further and further back. We'd all been captivated by this place. I homed in on the various conversations swirling through the air. Those who looked more my demographic talked about kids home with babysitters and quized one another on various 90s artists and groups featured on those aformentioned stars. Were they coming back after years away, too? Butterflies actually visited my stomach and did a dance there. Would this place be the same? Would I feel out of place? Would I be disappointed?

And then a deliberately scruffy looking First Avenue employee, who looked as though he hadn't seen more than 5 minutes of daylight in years, announced that the doors were opening. Like a single, giant music-loving unit, the dozens in line rose and shifted toward the door, emiting a palpable buzz. Some skinny punk in dirty dreads made a smart-ass comment about my intelligence as I gave him the wrong hand to stamp upon entering, evidence that the same disgruntled, too-cool for mainstream culture attitude I adored as a teen had prevailed. This time, instead of looking up to the sassy-pants, underground-chic employees, I realized I was older than most of them and no longer hoped to emulate them. I did, however, envy them because they work in a place I hold so dearly and give the impression that they live lives so much cooler than mine. I must admit, this realization hit me with a pang of sadness. I took it to mean that I officially work for the man and am not as cool and exotic as I once hoped to be when rapidly approaching 30.

I stepped inside and felt the warm, dank embrace of the blackness. This dim, dark hue was the color I've always associated with hearing good music. I crutched cautiously, yet hurriedly, up the stairs to find my husband--not my ever-present posse of geeky guy friends or boyfriends of days long gone--waiting at the table he'd proudly nabbed for his princess. We ordered drinks...another deviation from those young-punk days. And as the opening act came on, I squealed with delight because I'd recently written about the musician for Chicago Innerview. I knew my 15-year-old self would be somewhat proud. And as the main act took the stage and made musical love to us for what felt like hours, the magic came flooding back. I couldn't quit singing along. I yearned to dance, though it was out of the question in my condition.

I felt an intense physical connection with every single soul in the club because we were all there for one thing: music. We cheered. We sang. We jumped up and down. We got gushy and geeky when the lead singer spoke to us. We screamed for an encore and another and another. We refused to leave when the lights came on, but eventually came back to reality--somewhat--and shuffled toward the door while looking around and taking it all in, as though to say "Can you believe how lucky we are?" I asked Chris to buy me a concert T-shirt. It'd easily been a decade since I purchased one. But somehow this was the right time and the right place. I would wear it on the day of my surgery to remember the good vibes and fabulousness. I prayed to God that I could feel that way again and told myself not to get so caught up in life that I didn't indulge in shows anymore.

As we headed to the parking ramp I thought my soul might just my leave my body from so much delight. Then, I realized this relationship would absolutely stand the test of time.

You're soooo E-ttractive!

2007-07-06T09:16:00.000-05:00

"That's attractive," I sarcastically commented on someone's obnoxious behavior at a recent family gathering.

My 21-year-old brother looked at me with his head cocked to the side, eyes slightly squinted. His face half lit up and half conveyed sheer confusion. "E-ttractive?" he asked.

"Attractive," I corrected him, then, as though I had been beamed into his dimension, I knew what he was thinking.

The really-great-idea train had left the station and we were both on board.

"I thought you said e-ttractive, like someone who is only attractive on their Internet profile."

Those who know me ... and my brother ... know the sheer glee that followed. He'd coined a witty new term ... and I suppose he couldn't have done it without me, duh!

Perhaps it isn't new; I haven't sleuthed around to find out. But at least it was new to us, and we were completely pleased with our brilliant selves.

Introducing a single, concise and catchy adjective to describe those folks who look great in cyberspace with their elaborately planned profile pictures -- you know half naked next to their weight set or posed coyishly next to their favorite [insert object, place or animal], but get them out in broad daylight and, well, say it ain't so, they're not so hot now, are they?

So here it is kids -- E-ttractive. Get out there and start using it!

Business casual redefined

2007-06-12T16:55:00.000-05:00

Just before I leave for work this morning I hear:

"Honey, I think your pants are on inside out."

Marriage continues to save me from being left to my own devices!

More on loss.

2007-03-30T09:59:00.000-05:00

Two weeks ago today my life changed. I was offered my first salaried position ... and in my field!

A few hours later my joyous news was eclipsed by an update of another variety. I found out an old friend died by her own hand.

She was actually my sister's best friend from childhood, but a friend of the family as well since she practically lived under our roof. I assume that as an only child she enjoyed the chaos of our four-kid household in the seventh-circle of hell. At least someone appreciated it as the insanity unfolded.

We treated her like a sibling. I'm sure I provided plenty of eye rolls, and my brothers teased her and received a good amount of playful tormenting back. She traveled to our cabin with us, stayed for dinners and participated in family time. Though I can't bring forth specific memories, I can see her charismatic smile as though she were standing right in front of me. That smile radiated joy, but also hinted at mischief.

This young woman and my sister got into a lot of trouble together while in their late-teens. My sister broke away, but not without a fight I might add. Her friend struggled harder to do the same. I can't claim to know where she was in that battle. I do know a lot of people worried about her and cared for her, including the young daughter she left behind.

The entire situation simply breaks one's heart. I hoped I'd never hear of, let alone personally know of another person who took her own life. I prayed to never have to sit in a church again watching everyone weeping, asking themselves what they could have done, questioning why it happened. And this time was easily the worst. My mother. My sister. The young woman's parents. The church full of people in shock, all touched by this tragedy in a different way.

I can't quit thinking about any of them, or about her. I think about those final moments. As she slipped away, did she panic and change her mind? Did she cry out for help? Is there anything anyone could have done? We can't know. We can't torture ourselves with such questions.

Although I understand that she was tired of the struggle, I wish she could have known the pain would stop--that it wouldn't go on forever. I long to be able to tell her how good it can get and how little steps in the right direction can feel amazing. I know others think similar thoughts about how they could have helped out to her.

While we can't turn back the clock, we can know that we have the opportunity to reach out to the people in our lives--strangers, friends and family alike. We can bring others joy and give them support. But ultimately, we can't control what they chose to do.

Unfortunately, after hearing of a stranger's very public suicide, last fall I wrote this.

I've got direction ... sometimes

2007-03-30T09:39:00.000-05:00

As a rule, no city should possess two airports. (Or maybe space cadets like myself shouldn't be allowed to use online check-in since we don't actually look at the boarding pass we print out.)

There is nothing, NOTHING, like making it all the way through security and realizing you've arrived at the wrong airport and there is no possiblity of making your flight at the right one. Yep folks. I did this.

Karma's a bitch. I've spent the last month as a frequent flier sneering at others who can't pull their heads out of their arses in the security line.

Seriously, how hard is it to have your plastic baggie out, your shoes off and your pockets emptied by the time it's your turn to pass through the metal detector? You've only had 20-plus minutes in line to prepare for this moment. Well, I only had two-plus weeks to prepare to arrive at the correct airport. ::sigh:: I suppose I need to give my partners in humanity a little break.

Sending a message

2007-01-09T12:32:00.000-06:00

On a recent Saturday night, three girlfriends and I sipped green apple martinis around the kitchen table. The conversation inevitabley ended up on the topic of visiting the gyno. For women, these yearly trips reveal much about where we're at in this journey called life.

Once these appointments were meant for obtaining birth control and "getting tested." The doctor would always ask about sexual partners and protection. But now, instead of safe sex, the topic of conversation takes on new territory: responsible pregnancy.

My fabulous pals were commenting on being asked if they take a multivitamin and folic acid, the thought being that if they should decide to get pregnant their bodies need to be ready and healthy. Perhaps it is telling that my doctor only asks if I am taking my Prozac and birth control pills.

Countdown

2006-11-30T12:40:00.001-06:00

Just 13 days until I have the last class of my college career. Soooo happy!

dimly lit gyms and akward slow dances

2006-10-14T14:28:00.000-05:00

Oh god. I'm going to get all contemplative again. But it's just that the more complicated life gets, the more I think about less complicated times.

Right now I am listening to Tim McGraw (yes, I have an eclectic taste in music that includes some country artists) and on comes "Don't Take the Girl." This is such a throwback to much simpler times ... all I can think about is high school dances.

This song drips in that feeling of wanting to be be held close to someone, to be chosen, to be adored. It oozes in memories of my own teenage angst. And sometimes, I would give anything to go back and have that be the most complicated part of my life. Just the mere desire to connect with someone. No more than that. Because romantic relationships get far more complicated with age and with marriage. The mere desire to connect being just another pieace to a very complicated puzzle.

A day in full bloom

2006-10-14T14:08:00.000-05:00

As the leaves fall from the trees and dry into crumpled heaps, I always find myself crumpling a little bit, too. I know when fall arrives because so too does my seasonal depression. This year, however, things are different. I feel it, but I'm also not succumbing to it. But reminding myself to look for bright spots in the day always seems to help.

Every morning I walk by the most magnificent flower garden on my way to the el. It occupies the strip of grass between the curb and the sidewalk, as well as the border of a yard. The man who owns this splendor of yellow, white, blue, red and other vivid hues, spends his mornings off tending to his masterpiece. He always greets us, the 9-to-5-ers, as we wander like zombies through our daily routine. It is clearly the highlight of his day, showing off his flowers and chatting with the commuters and neighborhood folks out walking their dogs or children. He smiles and shares updates on the state of the garden--number of blooms, current feeding technique, successes, failures, and so on.

Sometimes I find myself reluctant to cross over to the other side of the street to pay him a visit, but whenever I do, no matter how unenthused I feel that day, I walk away feeling just plain good. He thanks everyone for stopping and wishes them a nice day or weekend or whatever.

Joseph, I recently learned his name, is a day brightener. And I can't help but feel thankful he's been planted in my path, along with his beautiful garden. I wonder if he has any idea how many lives he makes better through personal interaction and a hobby that are such an ordinary part of his own.

I am consistently occupied with deadlines-my own and those of others-schedules, interpersonal issues, and the future. I rarely stop long enough to have real moments, the simple, spontaneous kind. But thanks to Joseph, I am reminded every now and then how great it is to stop and smell the flowers

Young and opinionated on the CTA

2006-10-07T14:56:00.000-05:00

I love eavesdropping on the CTA. Here's a nugget from a conversation between two college girls, well, let me rephrase that; here's a nugget from the nonstop babble from a college girl to her friend who wasn't allowed to get a sentence in edgewise. This conversation entertained the entire el car for a good 10 minutes.

CG#1: I don't want a diamond. All they are is a rock. I mean they're made out of coal. Do you know how they're mined? Chinese children.

CG#2: mutters something at a normal conversation level so the entire car can't hear

CG#1: Well, there are NO politically correct diamonds.

CG#2: again, says something we can't hear

CG#1: I don't even shop at Wal-Mart

And on it went about diamonds and marriage and the evils of consumerism. And yet, she was one of those hipster chicks who obviously shops expensive places trying to capture thrift store chic. Too polished to be the real deal.

They got off at Loyola.

I sat there chuckling to myself because in one way or another we were all there at one point when we were starting to figure it out in the world. I remember my anit-roses and diamonds professions. Oh, and the organic foods and non-dairy products phase. Everyone had to know all about whatever I condemned at that time.

Steady as she goes...

2006-10-04T23:38:00.000-05:00

It's been a month since my last post. OK, longer than a month. I'm in my last semester of school. The last two years went by so fast.

A month into it all, things are swell. Classes are fine. I'm learning and experiencing the most through my work at The Chronicle, some freelancing gigs and my internship as an author's assistant. I need to say no a little more often, but I am so scared about finding a job when this is all said and done that I feel the need to take every opportunity that comes across my path, hence the multiple jobs/internships.

I shouldn't sweat it. But that's my nature, easygoing when it comes to most anything but incredibly uptight when it comes to my own "successes and failures." Ugh.

That's not to say this semester hasn't been fun. It's been a blast and by far the best one. I just need to chill the hell out an remember what day it is because I am under the impression my mind is living in January already, just waiting for my body to join it.

And something else...

2006-08-21T23:09:00.000-05:00

I know I've been waxing philosophy...I need to write more often so I can talk about the craziness of daily life...

Anyway, here's a movie suggestion. I though this looked so stupid, but for some reason we rented it over the weekend anyway. Hey, sometimes you just have to be adventurous and partake in some extreme movie rentals -- especially after doing several laps around the store and still coming up empty handed. So the one we ended up with in a moment of cinematic risk taking was pretty damn good. for a surprisingly entertaining film, rent "Failure to Launch."

If you go in with low expectations, you'll surely enjoy it.

Homecoming

2006-08-21T22:44:00.000-05:00

Two weekends ago I ventured back to Red Wing for a long-time friend's wedding. It is always so strange, going home. And as I edge further from 15 and closer to 30, it gets even stranger.

I can't get used to running into high school classmates who look like bloated versions of themselves, have children or who've undergone some of life's extreme joys or pains already. I'm sure it's no different for many of them. I know I, too, am a distorted version of my former self. Our bodies show age (I know we are young, but it is quite different from those lanky or baby fat or athletic days). Our minds show wisdom and growth. Our faces show the remenents of life lived. And it always grounds me, no matter how weird or sad or wonderful my visit is. I remember simpler times in life; times that often felt quite complicated.

As I sat around the table with my dear friends during the reception, I was amazed. I'd known these women since we were akward, teenage girls. Now, here we were, some married, some with children and all with integrity and accomplishment. I couldn't be more proud of us. Fifteen years ago, we probably spent time wondering where we'd be and who we'd be -- perhaps even dreaded it or worried about how it would all turn out.

We share that bond only those who've gone through the hell called adolecense together can share, and we are forever connected because of that. We may talk a handful of times a year and see one another once or twice, but we are always picking up right where we left off, always ready to share one another's joys and pains. It is fascinating to analyze the circumstances under which friendships form and how those friendships evolve or dissolve with us. What keeps some people in our lives indefinitely while others --sometimes even those we cherish--dissappear. But that's another post...

Art Imitates Life -- Can't Compare

2006-08-21T22:09:00.000-05:00

Chris and I went to see "World Trade Center" last week. To be quite honest, I wanted to see it. I know there is some controversy over whether or not enough time has passed for a movie to be made. But they're making them, folks. I was curious to know how it turned out.

I was actually nervous going in. I guess it's hard to know how one will react, but it was tastefully done. It was a horribly sad reminder of the hell so many lived through, fell victim to and watched unfold. I was surprisingly not the emotional wreck I'd expected to be. This disturbed me even more than the movie itself. I also felt guilty for laughing at the humor that had been included even though it showed that which gets people through tragedy. It just felt akward.

As the credits rolled and I wiped the tears welling in the corners of my eyes, I thought about why this movie failed to "get" me and bring me down into the emotional wreck other films have succeeded in doing. I mean I am a cinema crier.

While we were walking to the car and I debated whether or not to openly admit I was less-than-impressed, I decided that no matter how well done a movie about real life is done, if you've lived through it -- watched it happen in real time -- it is difficult to make the connection from that experience to Hollywood re-enacting it. At least that was the case for me and this film. Watching Nick Cage and Maria Bello just wasn't as striking as watching the actual footage. Perhaps it would be extremely jarring for others, especially those who were more intimately connected to that day.

It did make me think, however. I remembered the horrors and pains of that period in time. I felt warm and optimistic about the extreme good that lies within humanity despite the evils that also lurk (and get far more notice). I was struck that this story was only one of so many thousands. I couldn't help but think about how many stories there are...

So while the movie failed to sit with me long after the fact, it did bring out my memories out of storage, dusted them off and put them on display so I wouldn't forget any of it, the people, the lessons, the stories, the fear and the hope. It just made me think, long, deep and hard about the bigger things in life. I don't know about anyone else, but I think it is never too soon to be reminded of that day.

And another thing about city life...

2006-08-06T23:08:00.000-05:00

It was a lovely Thursday morning, and I was on my way to work. Life is never dull on the CTA, especially the Red Line. I transferred at Belmont from the Purple as is my routine, and the train was packed as is its routine. I made my way to the end of the car and grasped on to the bar above the seat to my right. There sat a woman filling out a crossword puzzle. Normal. Sure, for wordy geeks on the el.

However, I noticed she was shaking uncontrollably. Then she looked at me. I averted my eyes. Too late. She started screaming that she was sorry if she hurt any of us and that she didn't mean to. She kept screaming it over and over. Anywhere else, this may have caused a stir. But things are different in large cities. This sort of thing is status quo. Everyone kept about their business of trying not to make eye contact with anyone and avoiding as much human contact as possible--white headphones in, eyes staring straight into the celebrity gossip on the back of the Red Eye.

I tried not to give off the fear vibe. I was the obvious target afterall since I was to her immediate left. We were going underground, and all I could think of was that pen in my neck. I glanced down to see if she was filling in the crossword with words like "kill" and "murder." All of the answers were right. I was impressed. She kept trembling. I relaxed.

I lived to see daylight. And though there was a huge element of humor in the moment, I have to put the damper on it by saying how I was overcome yet again with the sad realization of mental illness and all of the people who suffer from it. I guess finding humor in such moments is how I keep myself from getting depressed as hell each day as I experience humanity on public transit. Sometimes its touching, usually its discouraging. But it's there.

Living in squalor

2006-08-06T22:57:00.000-05:00

It's official (as if it weren't after the whole rat thing shortly after we moved here...). We are living in squalor. I was in the kitchen the other evening--doing dishes amazingly enough--and what should I see out of the corner of my eyes but I cockroach the size of my pinky scuttling across the floor. Ewww. Where the heck was Val? She usually eats those things.

I don't think Chris believed me about the size until he came into the kitchen to see for himself. It was chillin' like a villain under the cupboard. I mean, this guy had sass. The light had been on at least a full five minutes and he just stared back at me asking me what I was staring at. No fear. None. Clearly, he thought he owned the place.

Before Chris could grab the paper towel to smash it to kingdom come--once he saw it and asked (with a tempted masking of sheer horror) if it was indeed a cockroach--it was gone into the crack in the wall. Yep. We live in squalor... and our cockroaches have attitude. Welcome to my world.

This book will change your life...

2006-08-06T22:54:00.000-05:00

Or maybe I'm being dramatic, but I adore it. I picked it up for a dollar at the Newberry Library used book sale a few weeks ago. If you are looking for a great read check out Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck. It is fabulous.

Trifecta of self-amusement

2006-07-07T23:15:00.000-05:00

Three things that have made me laugh out loud to myself in the last two days:

1. I was taking the Red Line to work when I just happened to look up from my book and glance out the window. This wouldn't have been anything special, but there, on top of an apartment building rooftop sat a lone treadmill. This wasn't a special garden or patio rooftop. It was your run-of-the-mill black tar-paper rooftop. The treadmill was obviously used for exercise, as it had been reinforced so it wouldn't slide off. I couldn't keep cracking up as I imagined some guy who looked like Uncle Eddie on Christmas Vacation running and waving at the trains with one hand and sluggin' back a PBR in the other. I couldn't contain my snickering. The guy riding behind me noticed, and the more I cracked up, the more he did. It was beautiful.

2. SAME TRAIN RIDE!!! This tall, lanky guy--mid to late twenties--gets on the train and sits down next to me. He doesn't smell. He takes up his alotted space and ONLY his alotted space, but his status as pleasant riding companion ended there. It was something like 8 o'clock in the morning, and the guy pulls out a plastic baggy filled with nuts. He then proceeds to start shoveling them into his mouth by the fist. All I could smell was the earthy smell of nuts, and I couldn't be grossed out because I could only think about how hilarious it was that he was literally squirreling them away, filling his cheeks like he wouldn't have another meal until winter passed.

3. Tonight we went out for dinner. Our waiter had a thick french accent. All I could hear from then on was Franc the wedding planner in Father of the Bride. He started telling us about the specials and proceeded to tell us about the "one pound lobster," only because of his accent, I hear "a big whompin' lobster." I was nearly in tears trying not to burst into laughter. Two glasses of wine later, I heard him announce this to two more tables. I had to leave. That was it. I couldn't quit thinking about the big whompin' lobster.

Summer reading

2006-06-19T23:41:00.000-05:00

Okay. Other than going to Seattle, the best part of my summer has been having some time to read books and whatever else for fun. There haven't been many, but the ones I've read have been good. So here are some recommendations:

1. Into the Wild by John Krakauer (heartbreaking and breathtaking all at once)
2. Shop Girl by Steve Martin (short and sweet...can finish in an afternoon on the beach if you are so inclined and have such an afternoon to relish in)
3. On Writing by Stephan King (great book even if you are not a writer and probably even if you hate to write)
4. Under the Banner of Heaven by John Krakauer (haven't finished it yet, but it's fascinating already...besides pretty much everything he writes is amazing)

Hopefully I'll burn through a few more before the summer ends.

A little of this ... A little of that

2006-06-19T23:24:00.000-05:00

Time to write a post because I feel like typing words and thoughts and whatever.

Today I reached "the point." The point, in this case, being the moment that I am absolutely ready to be done with school RIGHT NOW. I can't say I'm unhappy or bored. Far from it. I am just growing anxious, and I know things are wrapping up soon. It's just that I am sick of being stretched in so many directions with each boss/teacher/whomever expecting 100% of what I've got. And on top of that, I am sick of giving all of that without financial gain. Ugh.

Okay rant over. I feel much better. Thank you. And hang in there through all these morose and cranky entries. I know I could write this in my own personal space (aka a journal), but since I am forever in front of this god damned computer I guess I feel somehow that it is listening to me as I type. Stupid? Yes. And this is what is happening to my brain. Sigh.

On another note (and in another example of how I am losing it), Chris and I watched Date Movie last night. It was one of those completely dumb but hilarious movies. We had a free rental so there was nothing to lose but 80 minutes of our lives.

I don't know what came over me, but there was a certain scene with a cat (think Jenks from Meet the Parents only in a parody) sitting on the toilet taking a shit, and I couldn't stop laughing. It was seriously ridiculous. I had tears rolling down my cheeks, and I was gasping for air. I was HOWLING and my stomach hurt. I'm not normally one to react that way to potty humor (literally this time!) but I must have had some repressed laughter in there waiting to get out. It felt great. Best of all I made Chris laugh with this unexpected outburst. And the more I thought about how stupid the scene was the more I couldn't quit cracking up. I was laughing at my own laughter. Whew!

Standing in front of the past

2006-06-14T22:21:00.000-05:00

I haven't really written about Seattle yet, and I better do it soon since it has been one month now and I'm going to lose all of the precious details. Then again, maybe I will recount only that which was most important. I have been thinking about one poignant moment in the trip: the day Chris and I drove to the town where I lived as a girl.

It's strange how you can go more than a decade without being somewhere, but the minute you return, feel as though you never left. Everything was so familiar as we took the curvy country roads to Snohomish. As we drove through town I recalled taking dance lessons at the now gone dance studio and seeing "Christmas Vacation" at the now gone movie theater. I recalled going out for Chinese food with my grandma--at a restaurant that is still there! I pointed out the homes of friends I'd been long disconnected from and remembered the day I was allowed to walk from my house down to the library as we drove by the route I took. It was, to say the very least, surreal. And then, it was depressing.

After driving up and down the wrong street twice, we pulled up in front of the house where my family had lived 15 years ago. The pine trees bordering the sidewalk had grown tall and thick. I'd never remembered them that way. Then, I realized how much time had passed. The immense garden was gone, as was the blueberry bush and the rope swing. The yard, the greenhouse and the shed looked shabby and neglected. Two old cars were plopped down at what seemed to be random.

Our house was a large, old farmhouse that had been developed around and somehow had retained what I would estimate as a double lot worth of yard. I had been concerned it wouldn't be there anymore, that development would have had its way with my past. But there it was. And to the right, there was the thick forest that sloped down to a small creek, the creek my sister and I would explore together year 'round. We were best buddies then, before we became angry teenagers and I didn't have time for her.

I looked across the street to my once best friend Maleka's house. It almost looked like they still lived there, but I couldn't tell.

And as I deliberated whether or not to take a picture, I started to feel, to experience something more than visuals triggering memories. The very place I stood was triggering emotional memories that swept through my body with vivid clips playing out in my brain. I saw my life in that house through the eyes of an adult instead of the child who lived there. And I was overwhelmed with insights about my parents and my childhood and the childhood of my 3 siblings. That house marked a pivotal moment in our family history.

So much happened there. So much. And there I stood, at the brink of tears but at the same time elated to make it back to the place I was so fond of.

I remembered when my brother ate a slug while we picked blackberries in the yard, getting into the minivan to go to my first baseball game (Twins vs. Mariners) on the same day I received my first filling, running downstairs that Christmas morning a Nintendo showed up under the tree, listening to New Kids on the Block in the room I shared with my sister, taking our new Chow puppy for his first walk, and waking up scared in the midst of a minor earthquake...so many things...they keep flooding back.

I also remembered how we were so financially poor, how my dad had an affair and moved out for awhile, how my mom was so devastated, how I was angry and sad but wanted my daddy, how we moved away when I finally felt like I belonged somewhere after years of moving from city to city.

And so many whys were answered for me as I stood there. I suddenly understood so many things that didn't make sense to me then. I was there at 27 years old, able to step out of my own then 12-year-old self-centered world (normal, I know) and observe what was going on with her and everyone else. Yet I was feeling that 12-year-old girl's feelings all over again.

At that moment I think I let go of some remaining anger I unknowingly had carried with me and I experienced some sadness that I never let myself confess to when I was trying to be brave and keep peace. But as I sat in the car, hesitating to drive away, I also felt outrage that as a child I was punished for choices I didn't make, that I had to convince myself it was exciting to go somewhere new and that it meant life would be better.

I wondered how it would have been different, realizing it all works out how it works out, but still... In a moment of what I can only describe as panic, I desperately wanted to take something with me. Chris pulled two leaves from the creek where my sister and I once played. Exhausted, I pulled away.

Life didn't carryout there, but it carried out and the family that was once in so much turmoil has found joy and togetherness. Sort of. The picture is missing someone: my dad. And the cycle of heartache and contentment keeps spinning. But at least that chapter has been revisited and some footnotes can be written.

Stereotypes Exist for a Reason

2006-06-10T11:14:00.000-05:00

Last Saturday Chris and I were supposed to head to a funeral in Milwuakee. We got up, dressed and into the car. It was dead. Eww. I really didn't mean to write that as a pun. Anyway...

We called the nearby shop to have it jumped. An old, gnarly looking white-haired guy dressed in a sweater complete with crisp dress shirt collar peeking out rolls up in a pristine white Buick. (Bodyshop owner anyone?) The passenger door opens up and a short Mexican guy in mechanic's clothes hops out with a battery charger.

After realizing the car was in need of more than charging, we managed to start it up and drive it around the corner for exploratory surgery. Each minute meant this was going to be a hell of a lot more expensive.

Since I wasn't needed, I headed down the street to Starbucks for some coffee. As I sat sipping my grande light roast, I noticed they were promoting their new breakfast sanwiches by giving out samples. One of the baristas had them sliced up on a platter and was handing them out to passers by. To her left was one of Evanston's finest. Protecting the sidewalk outside of Starbucks from what I don't know. But he was propped up against a row of newspaper stands, yapping on his cell phone, which was pinned between his cheek and shoulder, and balancing on sandwich sample in one hand while eating another sample with his other. No donuts for our snooty suburban cops.

As I continued to stare (as I am prone to do while alone in public) I notice he drops one of the sandwich wrappers. The wind picks it up and it flits away from his feet. He's still yapping on the cell phone mind you. He starts to go after it (not a huge guy, but he definitely hasn't been eating his wheaties and doing his situps) but as it continues to flit away, he realizes no one is around (or so he thinks) and lets it go. It stops 6 feet from where he is standing and stays there. He doesn't bother to pick it up and throw it in the trash can it is resting next to.

I observe Mr. rolly-polly cop for a good 20 minutes more as he mows down no less than 4 more breakfast sandwich samples, continues on his phone chat and fights zero crime. I'm not even too certain he was aware of much going on other than the number of sandwiches left and the occassional beautiful yuppie mom who walked by with two tots in a doublewide jogger stroller.

Finally, a good half hour later he starts troll the meters out front looking for expired parking. And though I usually take great pleasure in seeing others get parking tickets, I was sort of hoping to see Sgt. Bacon, Egg and Cheese get busted by one of his superiors. Then again, there were more breakfast sandwiches to be had and somehow I think that would have been the more pressing matter.

Melancholy

2006-06-07T21:27:00.000-05:00

Sigh. Sometimes I just feel tired; you know what I mean? Tired of the same aches, the same angers and the same empty places. Things will roll along just fine. Life will feel tolerable. Then, BAM, something you thought was gone smacks you in the face from left field. It is then you realize that forgetting about things--or people--never makes them better. It just makes them go away for a little while.

I'm okay, really, just feeling a little down this week. I suppose it could be the fact that my clean, black yoga pants are covered in a thin layer of cat hair right now. Hah. Or maybe it's called summer school. Then again, maybe it doesn't have to be anything at all. It's just a little pity party because, let's face it, sometimes wallowing in your own shitty mood is the exact thing to cure it! I just need to slow it all down a little.

City sights...smells...sounds...

2006-06-04T17:42:00.000-05:00

Nothing like a vacation to magnify the idiosyncrasies of home. Ever since we returned from Seattle my eyes are wide open to all that makes this city, well, this city. It is hilarious and depressing all at once.

As Chris and I left the baggage claim at O'Hare and made our way to the Blue Line we were greeted by the CTA's signature scent: decades of urine and filth. We exchanged knowing glances. Vacation was over. We had been greeted by pine-scented, ocean air when we arrived at Seatac the week prior. Sigh. Welcome home.

Just days later we were out for a walk when we encountered an eccentric, homeless man on a bike. He had a trailer loaded with junk and his greasy gray hair was flying in the wind as he yelled "Out of the way. I don't have insurance. I can't afford to hit nobody." After he flew past he continued in sing-song fashion, "I'm homeless; don't got insurance. Homeless..."

And finally, I left my summer school class at 9 pm and stood in the subway, eyes glazed over, waiting to head home. Some dude was performing hip hop. The platform was full of students and late-working suits. I stared down at the filthy tracks, wondering-as I always do-what exactly the liquid is that is always pooled there. I then noticed a rat. Not a minute later, another one. I've seen rats in the subway, but never two at the same time. And to think, I didn't gasp in horror.

The incessant honking, CTA passengers with poor hygiene or too much cheap cologne, catcalls,phantom sewer odors and kamikaze pigeons... These fleeting daily experiences are why I both love this city and can't wait to be somewhere a bit less urban.

Going home

2006-05-02T22:28:00.000-05:00

In two weeks Chris and I are heading to Seattle to visit friends. I once lived there during childhood. I haven't been back in 15 years. I feel, in many ways, as though I am returning home...to one of them anyway. It seems I am always returning home, especially since returning to Chicago.

Because of my nomadic life, I have several home scattered about just waiting for me to return. It is odd, this feeling of returning to a place where your life once was. It seems but a dream, another time, another place, another life entirely.

Do these places that you hold near and dear remember you? Was your presence of any impact on the moments that occurred there leading up to today. Doubtful. We are just souls passing through, unnoticed, slipping quietly on.

I recall returning to Chicago. This is a place I left unfinished business--a dream. The first time I entered this city, four years after leaving, I cried. I can't rightfully explain the experience, but I know it was a feeling of being reunited with that dream--it waited here for me. It waited patiently while everything else grew and died and became. Right then and there I knew I had to return for it.

As I settled back into the city one year later, I realized how it had all changed--new air, new people, new me.

It is as though I am existing in tandem with a ghost of a life. Each corner of this city bears a memory long forgotten. I'll be walking down a certain street and suddenly feel a feeling from years ago, a feeling I had on that same street will take over me, and I experience it all over again with a touch of sorrow and fondness. Just yesterday I was walking down Addison near Wrigley Field during a Cubs game. It was a gray and dreary day, and I wistfully recalled one rainy evening, nearly a decade ago, that I attended a Cubs game with a former boyfriend. I recall running home in the rain because we couldn't find an empty taxi. I could see it all, smell it all and feel it all as the memory passed. Was that memory just lingering there waiting for me to walk into it? Smack. Home. And I had to ask if any of it was every really real, if any of it truly happened.

Roaming the streets of Chicago I am consistently reminded of the places that once made up my home; places where I encounter the spirits of my past. In some strange way they fuel me and push me forward. But nothing is the same, and neither am I. I look back at the person I was and see who I've become now.

It is true when they say you can't go home. You just can't. Sure, you can physically go to a place that was your home, but it is no longer what it was. Home is deeper than a place. It is a place, a time, and state of being. It can never be recreated.

The day I drove by my old Uptown apartment confirmed all of this. There we were, parked in front of it, my husband (who never knew me in that life) and I, just staring at it. Memories of what happened within those walls flashed through my mind like one intense slideshow.

And then I noticed something. There, out front in the courtyard, as if to confirm the past was no more, was a sign advertising "luxury" condominiums. The insides of my one-time home had been gutted, and with it some remains of my past. It was truly symbolic. I was in the same place, chasing the same dream, but NOTHING was the same and would never be. It was at that moment I knew the past had stayed with me too long, that it had to be let go and set free into the universe to allow room for the dream of today. And every now and then we pass each other on the street--the past and I--and I give it a smile and it winks back at me, assuring me that I'm doing alright. And I am.

And so I wonder, when I return to Seattle, will I run into home as I am walking down the street? I know it will be lingering in the shadows, the spirit of a life I once lived. And I will be there seeing it through this life.

Setting Sail

2006-05-02T22:10:00.000-05:00

For the past two years I've been plagued by dreams about water. At least once a month I found my dreaming self at a swimming pool, ocean or large lake. The dreams started with me standing aprehensively on the side of whatever body of water was featured that evening. Soon they involved me getting in, but the water was always freakishly deep, and so I would be afraid to leave the side or shoreline. Eventually a boat started to appear--a large cruise ship or yacht depending on the night.

These dreams didn't seem to be anything spectacular. They weren't nightmares or pleasures. However, they haunted me throughout the days to follow, and I can still remember several of them vividly.

As I concluded up a more intensive round of depression treatment last month I revealed these dreams to my therapist. I figured they had to mean something. She smiled and said that these dreams represented the journey I was on, the growth I was experiencing. And of course, it all made sense. Eventually, she said, that boat would set sail.

I took that metaphor with me and held it dear to my heart. I hadn't thought about it much on a conscious level until the other day when I realized that the summer internship I recently started is at a boating magazine.

And so, once again, I see that there are no accidents or coincedences in this life. If you keep your eyes open, you realize just how intentional everything is. Amazing.

when the cat doesn't stick the landing

2006-03-25T10:47:00.001-06:00

Yesterday Cat went to make the leap from the toilet to the bathroom sink in frantic anticipation of a fresh sip of tap water. She tackles this feat frequently, because anytime anyone goes anywhere near the bathroom (which would be our whole apartment) she thinks she's going to get her fresh water fix. Cat thinks fresh running tap water is the shit.

Well, yesterday she didn't quite complete the transaction. It is not suprising this doesn't happen more often because A) she has the cat equivalent of a beer belly, and B) she has no front claws.

And so the situation played out. To my absolute horror, she ricocheted off of the porcelain sink and fell backwards, hitting her head on the toilet and frantically scampering away. I chased after her to make sure she was alright. As I sat down to comfort shell-shocked Cat, this thought crossed my mind: How do you know if a cat has suffered brain damage or internal bleeding?

She could have been massively hemorrhaging, and I had no way of knowing. I kept thinking about her tiny skull. It must have hurt like a bitch. Just minutes later Chris came home, and I told him that his life almost changed for the better. (He fronts that he hates Cat.)

A bit later in the evening, I left the living room, only to return to him hovering over the still shaking Cat, checking her out.

"Aww. You're worried about her," I teased.

"I just wanted to figure out if this was going to cost us any money." Nice cover.

I figured it would be too late by the time we figured out if anything was wrong. But this got me thinking, seriously, how much would we shell out to save Cat? We acquired her in her later years. She's a wonderful companion.

However, wouldn't it be more economical to shell out another $100 at the shelter to save another homeless critter instead of spending hundreds more to save this one. I mean cats are a dime a dozen. The benefits would be greater to us and society to let Val move on to kitty heaven.

Would my emotions outweigh my practicality if such a decision had to be made? I honestly don't think so. I am so going to hell, but I'm just being pragmatic: When the cat doesn't stick the landing, you must let nature take its course.

Apologies

2006-03-24T23:33:00.000-06:00

As you can tell, brevity is not my strong suit.

Belated chronicles of the January East Coast excursion

2006-03-24T23:06:00.000-06:00

Finally, I am posting a link so whoever wants to can see the pics from our crazy East Coast trip back in January.

We hit up 7 states in 4 days, actually 8 in 5 days for me since I picked Dustin up in Wisconsin. Despite the rushed nature of it all, we had an amazing time.

We managed to visit friends in Ohio, take in the beauty of upstate New York, visit Niagara Falls, eat Buffalo Wings in Buffalo, roam Harvard Yard, sleep on the floor of a 20-year-old student/musician's bedroom, roam historic Boston and dine on fresh seafood, and most importantly, we saw Dustin off to his first semester at Berklee via a fun road trip.

I must say, Boston is a really cool place. Everything is so old. It's teeming with energy and creativity. And Cambridge. Wow. If I could do it all over again, I would set myself up to go to Harvard. The place took my breath away.

Chris and I left late Saturday night with plans to stop in Connecticut to slumber and head off to NYC in the morning. Hey, we made it that far, and I wasn't leaving until I saw the Big Apple. Well, after nixing some shady looking hotels--apparently people don't sleep in hotels in Connecticut unless they are paying by the hour--I saw a sign that said "Welcome to the Bronx." I promptly exclaimed this news to my darling husband who assured me that we were not in the Bronx, but alas, we were.

This meant only one thing. We had to keep going and stay in Jersey or Pennsylvania or drop some serious cash cuz we were sleeping in NYC. And my puppy dog eyes worked like a charm. I had to experience the magic of NYC in the daylight. So we settled for a dive in Brooklyn near Laguardia. I swear the walls were made of cardboard. It was more than I've ever paid for a hotel room. Sad. But I was like a kid on Christmas Eve. And so we awoke at something like 6 a.m., which was really 5 according to our Central Standard Time internal clocks.

We had 3 magnificent hours in Manhattan. Despite the fact that it was friggin' freezing, we took in Central Park. I figured that with our limited time, that was the one "must see." It had just snowed; it was early on a Sunday morning, and everything was quiet and still. My dear husband has seen the city a few times so he really was a good sport to freeze his buns off walking through Central Park. The rest of our tour was by auto. Since Chris had been there, and traffic was practically nil, we were able to cruise by all of the places you commonly associate with NYC. And, on our way out, we stopped for Bagels and Lox. Duh. I fell hard for that gorgeous, fascinating, electrifying city. I'm already craving my next fix. I knew it would be love at first site. But the affair was swiftly ended.

Alas, we were back in the Windy City by 1 a.m. When I awoke to see Chris off to work, I felt that it had all been one fabulous dream. Boston, New York...two more amazing places to add to my list of favorites.

Seriously. I wrote about this...And a lot.

2006-03-24T12:25:00.000-06:00

I've never been a fan of Britney Spears. I rolled my eyes and ranted about kiddy porn back in the days she showed up in those slutty Rolling Stone pics in her tender mid-teen years. (Though I did sort of like a couple songs, and must admit I was ever-so-slightly envious of her hot body.) In fact, lots of folks were talking about this teen pop sensation. She gave us plenty to talk about.

Now those who follow celebs (which seems to be everyone, even "respectable" news outlets, but that's a different post for a different day), are constantly criticizing Mrs. K-Fed for letting herself go. Geez. Leave the woman alone.

Who hasn't had a bad year (or years) in the personal upkeep department? God only knows I'm just getting myself back in shape after a post-wedding let go. And how many pregnant women bounce back into perfect shape right after giving birth? Besides, the Britster still looks better than most of the overweight American public!

I just think that after working her ass off as a teenager, she's entitled to relax and live a more "ordinary" life. Imagine having your chubby, barefoot, cheeto-munching ass plastered all over the cover of trashy magazines nationwide. Yeah, she chose a life in the spotlight. This much is true. She may be living the "white trash" life. But I think she's entitled.

I mean, come on, fess up, I know you've drank Old style in your undies while watching NASCAR or have left the house in raggedy, dirty sweats without brushing your hair (or your teeth). How many best-selling records have you had? We all have our trashy moments. And trashiness is a relative term, so even if you haven't done anything as "extreme" as the situations above, you know you've been trashy by your own definition. We just go there sometimes.

So, I'm on the record to say I whole-heartedly support Britney--because, ya know, the world really cares whether or not I support Britney just about as much as I care if I support Britney. Uh huh.

But, seriously, it is interesting that many of us are still talking about her and haven't let her fade into obscurity. Maybe we're just concerned about the once, doe-eyed Catholic schoolgirl who proclaimed she was "not that innocent." Maybe we just want better for the driven--and arguably talented--girl whom we've watched grow into a young woman. Doesn't that ring true for everyone? We all have someone in our real lives whom we look at and think, "He seems happy, but I envisioned so much more for him." Maybe we see ourselves, how we've hoped for better, and how we don't want others to make the same mistake of not living up to their potentials.

But hey, Brit's lived out her dreams with more ambition than most, and I support anyone who does whatever makes herself content. So as I sit here on my lawn chair drinking strawberry wine coolers in my American flag bikini, admiring the dandelions growing in front of my double wide (damn those kids need to quit screaming, mommy's drunk), I raise a toast to Britney Spears for being whomever the hell she wants to be.

Back in the saddle

2006-03-06T23:45:00.000-06:00

Oh how I lament the fact that I can't quite discipline myself to make more frequent blog entries! Hopefully all the mindfulness and self discipline I am taking from my yoga classes will translate into the rest of my life. I mean that was the whole point in taking it. Getting myself to be still and focus through nearly 3 hours of yoga each Saturday and an hour each day has been a miracle. Being unaware of my thoughts and focusing on the here and now...you've got to be kidding me...I can't do that. Amazingly, I am learning. I can actually feel myself mellowing out.
Stress? What stress? Worry? What worry? But alas, not tonight.

Tonight I find myself cramming for the horrific string of days known as midterms. I haven't had actual midterm tests in a very long time. Being back at Columbia has meant lots of papers and projects with the benefit of fewer tests. For the more verbally inclined like myself, the papers and projects route is brilliant. I love the fact that I go to school with thousands of other art geeks who also display their intelligence and skill through outlets other than tests; not to mention the fact that all of my professors are art geeks in their fields and don't adhere to your run-of-the-mill academic practices.

I wasn't so lucky this semester. I get four midterm tests, two of them coupled with midterm papers as a little something extra for shits and giggles. I've been blissfully unaware of the existence of test-related stress and anxiety--that last minute panic that erases everything you know until after you've bombed said test.
Oh how the feeling that your brain has liquefied and your life is in imminent danger comes back so quickly.

Without my pre-test coping mechanism of consuming chocolate and mountain dew, my nerves would send me off attempting to contract the bird flu in order to avoid the inevitable doom of test day. Ahhh. But now that I've freaked out (and in a way that was productive in meeting my goal to make time for writing each day) I must get back to my little all-nighter. I. am. too. old. for. this. Seriously.

Not a severed finger, but...Happy Birthday anyway

2006-01-08T22:34:00.000-06:00

Not to worry.

I am not changing this to my medical drama outlet. I just haven't written in awhile and this inspired me to vent. But I will write something non-medical related next time...and soon.

Really.

Today marked my second ER trip in one year and four days. Not the sort of annual trip I'd like to make. Last year was the left middle finger meets shiny new bread knife that thinks flesh is a bagel incident. On Chris' birthday.

Though I fell horribly ill on his birthday (the big 3-0) this year and he had to settle with the company of an invalid at his birthday dinner, we managed to do without one expensive party at good ol' St. Francis.

Until today, the day before my birthday (fabulous 27--horrifyingly close to the "big3-0", reminding you that you are definitely into your late twenties, but still FAR too young to be making annual birthday ER trips).

Since my tonsils decided to stay the size of kiwi fruits and the color of pomegranites with lovely white sploches of mold for 5 days and running, and my doctor is on a month-long vacation and my HMO doesn't have an urgent care provider in my network but I was granted permission to consult with a nurse over the phone...whew...don't really get me started...

We went in. Good thing we finally paid off the severed finger re-attachment bill last month (no insurance last year. we'd have been better off with a needle and thread with a shot of tequila for the pain).

So everything is fine, but in the words of the attending physician, my "throat sure is angry." Yep. The old angry throat diagnosis or a hefty case of Pharyngitis, which is just a fancy word for a really fucked up sore throat. No bird flu here.

Last year, at my first-ever ER visit, I received my first-ever "experience" with stiches. This year I got my first-ever "experience" with an IV. Ahh. Whatever steroid they let flow into my veins did relieve the pain and swelling for a spell. Or maybe it was just the soothing babies dressed as bears photo hanging on the wall next to the delivery table I got to occupy during my little injection and late-afternoon/early-evening stay at my beloved St.Franny's. Yep. Delivery table.

Each year a new experience. Each year better than the next. (get it?) What'll it be for Fischer Family Birthday Medical Emergency 2007? Amputation? Defibrillator? Lobotomy?

And why is it when they ask if I have any pre-existing medical conditions (and I have to answer that I am currently being treated for depression and pull out the tome which lists my current meds) I feel like they're checking off the "another loony with hypochondria" box on the intake forms? Ohhh, Jerry, we've got another crazy one. Set up our "special" IV, you know the one with H20 in it.

Poor Chris. He's going to fear birthdays for a whole new reason.

My present to both of us this birthday season will be to take better care of myself in this next year of life. I haven't honestly been doing that. I have never been good at doing that, always putting school or work or chaos before health and inner peace.

This year I want to take the time to take care of my body, mind and spirit, to nurture the relationships in my life and to cool it on the stressed out "I'm on a mission" persona. That bitch is going to kill me and she's really started to annoy me with her tunnel-focus and inability to stop until she's worn down and depressed and has alienated everyone in her life. That's not strength. It's stupidity. With age comes wisdom. I guess its time to use some of it on myself.

Revolving phobia

2005-12-02T15:08:00.000-06:00

After being intimidated by revolving doors for years, I thought I was finally confident with using them. Afterall, Chicago is no place to live if you fear the revolving death trap ... er ... I mean door.

Today I got smashed in one.

A compliment for my "girls"

2005-11-27T13:24:00.000-06:00

We had the opportunity to meet up with some Minneapolis friends who were visiting family in Wisconsin for Thanksgiving while we were also visiting family in Wisconsin for Thanksgiving.

Apparently the youngest of their four children did not remember what I looked like (we had not seen her in six months) and asked her mother for a description prior to our arrival.

Her mother explained that I was short and had blonde hair. As the 5-year-old began to recall who I was, she followed up with her own memory ...

"Oh, yeah. And nice boobs!"

Priceless.